


The Road from Hell

by Avelera



Category: Babylon 5, Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Centauri, Drakh, Fix-It, Gen, Hostage Situation, Intrigue, Mind Control, Novel, Politics, Post Season 5, War, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vir comes to Centauri Prime to confront Emperor Londo Mollari on his increasingly cruel and erratic policies. In a twist of fate, Vir learns of the presence of the Drakh  and does the only thing he can: offer to take Londo's place, accepting the Keeper for himself in exchange for Londo's safety. What follows irrevocably changes the future of the Centauri and the galaxy, and sets in motion events to free Centauri Prime from the Drakh once and for all. </p><p>The road from hell is not an easy one. It is treacherous, soaked in blood, and more difficult than any of them could imagine.</p><p>Novel-length, post-series fix-it AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vir

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Livejournal AU Ficathon: Londo & Vir, Vir takes the Drakh Keeper for Londo, your mind on the road from hell and back, prompted by fuckyeahdelenn aka miotasachsaol. Partially beta'd by the utterly fantastic Amatara.
> 
> Some reference is made to both the “Legions of Fire” trilogy by Peter David. However, knowledge of the the trilogy is unnecessary to read this story, as all relevant information is included in the prose. More extensive author notes regarding the setting can be found here: http://avelera.tumblr.com/post/20148025114/the-road-from-hell-part-1-a-babylon-5-au
> 
> Some of this work has been beta'd by the wonderful Amatara. I am continuously humbled that she took such an interest in this work, as she is such a fantastic writer herself. Go read her works immediately after you have read this!

The silverware clinked as servants arrived with the evening meal. Vir frowned as Londo shook his head at the proffered _brivari_ , never having known his friend to turn down alcohol. It had only been a few years, but Londo had aged a decade in that time. His hair was still dyed a deep, inky black but the lines of his face had deepened and the pouches beneath his eyes had become more pronounced. He was a haggard shadow of his former self, the faint smiles of thanks he gave the serving girl not touching his eyes.

 _‘Someone is controlling the Emperor. The name “Drakh” is whispered, but none know what it means. Only you are close enough to him to find out. Be careful!’_ Vir had been startled when the slight form barreled into him on his way to meet Londo, and the crumpled note had been shoved into his pocket. He’d had only a momentary glimpse of a retreating bald head as the figure disappeared around a corner. He thought he had recognized the Imperial Archivist, Aela Cantori, but he was too shaken by the note to pursue her. Someone behind the throne…it would explain the pall of silence that hung about the palace, the draconian laws, the executions. All things he had been planned to confront Londo about. But this note changed everything, slid the inconsistent elements into place like a lens coming into focus.

 “So, Vir,” Londo said, rolling the “r” luxuriously. Vir felt his breath catch in his throat at the familiar greeting, and looked up to see a cheerful expression frozen on Londo’s features, too bright and brittle to be entirely real. “Tell me of your time on Babylon 5. I have found that over the years I have come to miss that rusted tin can.”

“Ah, well, things have gotten easier for me lately. The Drazi especially…” Vir began, stating some vague pleasantries and ticking off a few of the minor diplomatic brush-ups that had caused him annoyance over the past few months. As he spoke, Londo settled back into his chair, a little of his stiffness melting as he listened with what appeared to be genuine enjoyment.

“Good, good Vir! I told you someday they would have to take you seriously.” Londo spread his hands expansively. “It seems that day may have finally arrived. Which reminds me…”

“Which reminds me,” Vir said at the same moment. The two glanced at each other. “I’m sorry, go on.” The name “Drakh” hung on his lips, but he felt a strange reluctance to speak it, as if it would mark some turning point in his life. If Londo wasn’t under another’s control, then Vir must consider what to do about the man who had once been his friend. He could not allow the executions to go on, but how to pull Londo back from his paranoia? And if he was being controlled? Who could wield the kind of power needed to sway an Emperor? And what could Vir do to stop them?

Londo shook his head, waving his hands in front of him as if pushing Vir forward. “No, no, I insist.”

“I couldn’t possibly. Emperor’s prerogative after all,” said Vir

“Ah, well, fair enough,” said Londo, straightening. He frowned, as if searching for the words, his mouth half open as he considered, “I have been thinking of Lady Morella’s prophecy of late.” Vir blinked, and Londo leaned against the table, steepling his fingers over his lips and fixing him with a somber look. “She said that one of us would be Emperor after the other. And,” he chuckled, “who am I to argue with prophecy? It has come to my attention that I must appoint an heir. I would very much like it to be you.”

Vir’s mouth worked as Londo’s words sank in, a million protests coming instantly to mind. “But Londo, I can’t, I mean I’m not qualified to…”

“Nonsense! You have as many qualifications as I did, pathetic as those may be,” Londo said, taking a sip from his glass. He glanced down at it, as if surprised that it was water. “And by the time you are fit to inherit I expect you will have filled other positions as well. No, this is the best way.”

“Londo…I don’t know what to say…”

“A simple thank you will suffice,” said Londo, canines flashing as he grinned. “It is a great weight off my mind to have this trivial matter out of the way. You are the obvious choice. Underestimated, unexpected…pah, they will spend the next year fighting amongst themselves, certain it is a trick! In particular that little brat, Vintari. Well, too bad for them, it is already signed.”

 “I don’t think this is a good idea!” Vir interjected. Londo paused, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Are you refusing a direct order from your Emperor?”

“It’s not about that,” he sighed, “There has to be someone better qualified than me to take the position!”

“There isn’t,” Londo said. “It is you or no one.” Vir opened his mouth to protest but Londo shut him down with a shake of his finger. “I have made my decision and I will not be swayed on this matter.”

“I…”

“Please, Vir.”

Vir stopped, meeting his friend’s eyes. They looked old, tired, but beneath that they burned with the first honest emotion Vir had seen since arriving on Centauri Prime. It was not desperation, no, it burned hotter than that. Rather it was raw determination, the muscles in Londo’s jaw moving as if clamping down around words he could not speak. Vir could only imagine how much it had taken from him to form it as a request. Despite himself he nodded, and placed his hand over Londo’s gloved one.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

Joy, sorrow, relief, mixed on Londo’s face and he looked down at Vir’s hand, a smile pulling at his lips. “Thank you,” he said, his voice husky. He coughed and pulled his hand away, the cordial mask of the Emperor once more falling across his features like a veil. “So, what were you going to ask me?”

“There has been a name circulating on the station,” Vir lied. He was not sure why he did, but a sense of foreboding had settled on his heart. Londo watched him, his tilted his head to the side as he listened. “And I was wondering if you might have heard it here as well.”

“Bah, as if my intelligence network tells _me_ anything. Well, spit it out, I will see what I can do to track down this mysterious _name_.”

“Have you heard of something called ‘Drakh’?”

Londo stiffened as if electrocuted. Vir had only a minute to throw up a hand as the man across from him convulsively grabbed the pitcher of water and swung it at Vir’s head.

He might have even connected, but Vir was a younger man and was able to sidestep. Londo overbalanced, and Vir moved in quickly, pinning Londo’s arm against his body, grappling against him. “Londo! What are you _doing_?” he exclaimed. Vir bit back a gasp as Londo’s eyes met his. They held the crazed expression of a wild animal, without a glimmer of rationality, only blind fear. Londo struggled against Vir, trying to wrench his arm free for another swing at his head. But life as Emperor had not been particularly active for Londo, and Vir was the stronger man.  He bore Londo to the ground, the pitcher scattering its contents as Londo lost hold of it.

“ _Let go of me_ ,” Londo growled. “You have to _get out of here_. _Now_!”

“Londo, what is going on?” Vir gasped from the exertion as Londo writhed to free himself. “This is insane!”

“Guards!” Londo shouted. Vir clapped a hand over his mouth and brought them face-to-face.

“Is it the Drakh, Londo? Just nod, before anyone arrives. No one can hear us. Just let me _help_ you.” But Londo only fought harder, whipping his head back until his mouth was free.

“No, you fool, they’re _here_. They are _always_ _here_ ,” Londo said. There was such terror in his voice, beyond anything Vir had ever heard from him before, that he recoiled. “You must go before they kill you! Great Maker, it may be too late already.” Londo’s eyes had gone wide and vacant, as if contemplating an unimaginable horror as he looked at Vir.

The air shimmered near Londo’s shoulder and Vir blinked, shaking his head to clear his vision. “So you’re saying they can hear me right now?”

“Yes, yes, now go!”

“No. I won’t leave you here with them.” Vir released Londo and scrambled to his feet, staring about the room, searching for where they had hidden their cameras and microphones. The might have the entire palace bugged, how he could have been so stupid as to think this room was safe? “Do you hear me? Show yourself, whoever you are!”

Something moved out of the corner of Vir’s eye like a mirage, and he whipped around to see… _a creature_ had materialized on Londo’s shoulder. It was hideous, a melted blob of puss with tentacles wrapped around Londo’s throat and a single yellow eye glinting with malevolence.

  _“…No, please…spare him…please…I’ll do… anything…”_ Londo was whispering something low and frantic when his whole body went rigid and he screamed, clawing at his own face and skin, everywhere but at the disgusting thing on his shoulder. With a cry, Vir fell to his knees at Londo’s side but could only watch helplessly as he spasmed, once, twice, and fell limp.

“Stop, stop it! You’re killing him!” Vir’s fingers scrabbled to open Londo’s collar to give him air, then bending to listen to his chest. The twin hearts hammered beneath his ear, frantic but steady. “Gods, what _are_ you? Why are you _doing_ this?”

 “We are the Drakh,” a hoarse voice said. Vir jumped as a figure stepped out from shadows he had not seen. Its skin was dark and scaled, like a stone come to life, and red eyes blazed  out from beneath its crusted brow. “Who are you that Mollari is so insistent that you live? He did not fight this hard for any of the...others.”It tilted its head, studying Vir like he was no more than a curious insect it had found on the floor, as if all it wondered was whether to squash Vir or pin him to a display.

“Others? Are _you_ the ones behind the executions?” Vir said.

“There were some that needed to die. They came too close. Like you,” the Drakh said. It glanced down at the gray abomination clinging to Londo’s shoulder. “Mollari tried to hide them from his thoughts, but we saw through the deceit. He will be punished for this, for not telling us what you knew.”

“He didn’t know,” Vir said quickly, his limbs going numb with horror as it all began to sink in. These things must have some sort of telepathic ability if they were able to read Londo’s thoughts. His own gaze followed the Drakh’s to the creature on Londo’s shoulder. It was watching Vir, and though it had no face for expressions he thought he saw hunger in its eyes. It must have been there the entire time, listening, monitoring Londo’s words, _his thoughts_. Vir swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat at the thought. “He didn’t know, please don’t hurt him.”

“Mollari must learn,” the Drakh said. “This was not his first disobedience. The next punishment will have to be more severe.”

“Then take me instead!” Vir blurted.

The Drakh paused and turned to consider him. It seemed surprised, as if seeing Vir for the first time. “Why?”

“Because he is my friend,” said Vir, meeting the Drakh’s unnerving garnet eyes. “And because I don't think you’ll let him go without getting something in return.”

The Drakh seemed to smile, “You are braver than the others, little Centauri. But still I do not see what it is you have to offer.”

Vir’s mouth went dry and he licked his lips, the enormity of the situation dawning on him. “I am the Emperor’s duly appointed heir. There’s no reason in the eyes of the Centaurum that I can’t inherit as soon as it becomes official. He could step down and I…I would take his place.” The Drakh was studying him, as if expecting more. “He is old, and you said he was disobedient. Let him go, promise me you won’t hurt the Centauri people, and I…I will do whatever you say.”

“Those are not so different from Mollari’s terms,” said the Drakh. A lump rose in Vir’s throat. _Oh Londo…_ “We have planted fusion bombs across the surface of your planet. Should you consider disobedience, or consider telling another of our presence here, that person will die. If it is not enough to silence an individual, your people will die in their billions. Their safety is in your hands. Do you find these terms acceptable?”

Vir looked down at Londo, the deep lines in his face, his shallow breathing, the wretched thing on his shoulder.

There was no question.

“Yes. Just let him leave. Because if you hurt him then by the gods I will...”

“We will keep our bargain,” said the Drakh. “But we cannot allow him to talk. Unless you are willing to trade all of your people for one, the one that delivered them into our hands?”

Vir stared, stricken. “What are you planning?”

“We will place barriers within his mind. He will not be able to tell others of what he has seen here, but he will live. This is our only offer. Take it,” said the Drakh, “Or die.”

 _Is there really any difference_? Vir thought, and for a moment he thought he saw, hovering in the air, all the moments that had led to this point. His appointment to Babylon 5, Londo hurling the glass during the Ragesh III incident, Lord Refa, Morden, _your head on a pike_ , the fall of Narn, serving on Minbar, Abrahamo Lincolni, Lyndisty, Refa’s telepath burrowing into his mind, Cartagia, blood on his hands, Vorlon ships darkening the sky, the end of the war, Londo’s coronation, becoming Ambassador to Babylon 5, the executions that brought him back to Centauri Prime, all of it funneling to this moment, to the Keeper’s yellow eye and the Drakh before him.

He undid the buttons of his coat and, casting it aside and baring his throat to the Drakh. “I accept. Now, do it.”

Londo screamed, jerking Vir’s gaze away from the Drakh. His back arched as another howl of agony was torn from his throat while the Keeper burrowed deeper into him, its eyelid half-closed in concentration. Vir took a step towards him but the Drakh held up a hand. “It is establishing the barrier. Do not interfere, or he will die.” Vir froze, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly as Londo groaned and writhed on the floor. The creature’s tentacles pulsated, as if feeding off him.

“Now,” the Drakh said. The Keeper detached itself from Londo’s throat. His whole body seemed to sigh and go boneless as it departed, the lines of pain easing, his face slackening into sleep. Vir had only a moment to appreciate the sight when he felt the thing’s first tentacle wrap itself around his ankle, and the Keeper begin to climb its way upward.

A part of Vir wanted to scream, to run, to throw up, but he held still and kept his eyes fixed on Londo’s motionless form, comforting himself with the knowledge that his friend would soon be free and at peace, even if his own torment was only beginning.  

 _“There is another who knows_.” Vir started as a voice in his mind seemed to hiss, its thoughts directed at the Drakh.

“Who?” said the Drakh.

 _“The archivist_.” A vision of Aela Cantori flashed through Vir’s mind.

“Your first order, little Centauri,” said the Drakh. “Have her killed.”

“No!” Vir said and sucked in a breath as a sting like jellyfish burned into his shoulder, dropping him to his knees. His hand moved on instinct to slap at the source of the pain, but went rigid mid-strike as the Keeper took control of his nervous system. He knelt there, frozen in shock at the sudden invasion of his body and thoughts. No, no, he had no time for this. “She is…Centauri. You guaranteed my people’s safety.”

“Only so long as they all remain ignorant. You must choose, her life or your people.”

“No, please, there has to be another way,” Vir pleaded, and groaned as the Keeper’s grip tightened, threatening. “She doesn’t have anything except a name! S-send her with Londo, send them both to Babylon 5. She will be banished as a traitor, no Centauri will go near her!” The Keeper’s feelers relaxed and Vir could feel it transmitting its report of his thoughts to the Drakh. “Please. I promise, no one will believe a word she says. Just let her live.”

“You are risking much for one person,” said the Drakh.

“One life,” Vir grunted, pushing himself to his feet. “Or a hundred. It doesn’t matter. I will protect my people, and my friends.” He stood, trying not to sway from the disorientation of the newly joined creature on his shoulder. “I can make things difficult for you without disobeying. Is it worth it to challenge me on such a small matter?”

“Perhaps not,” said the Keeper. Was that grudging respect in its voice? “Consider this a test. There is no failure. Should she whisper a single word of our presence, we will not hesitate to detonate the fusion bombs. Remember that, and hope your faith is well placed. Now you should go, your Keeper is exhausted and in need of rest to complete the joining process. When you awaken you may bid goodbye to Mollari and send him on his way.” The Drakh smiled, its mouth splitting like a knife wound. “We are not cruel, after all.”


	2. Londo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been beta’d by the amazing Amatara, whose improvements transformed the prose before my very eyes. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> In the “Legions of Fire” trilogy, the Drakh who gives Londo the Keeper (seen in “The Fall of Centauri Prime”) is given the name Shiv’kala. He was referred to simply as the Drakh in the previous chapter, as Vir would not have known his name at the time. Londo, however, does know its name.

Voices echoed around Londo as he struggled through a fog of pain, unable to focus. Somewhere a scream rang out, and his breath hissed between clenched teeth as the sound reverberated in his ears. He touched his hand gingerly to his forehead, feeling that it might split like a rotten fruit at the slightest contact. It was, surprisingly, still intact and without a trace of blood. Strange. He would have thought only violent head trauma, perhaps delivered by a battle-axe, could cause such agony. He tried to open one eye but gagged as the light pierced his skull like a knife through the socket. He pressed the back of his hand against the lids to shut it out. As he did, Vir's face swam before him, but he could not tell if it was a memory or a trick of the light. Hadn’t he kept Vir far away?

He blacked out.

When he woke again, the room that greeted him was a familiar one – the Imperial suite with its hanging canopy and garish golden trim. Londo closed his eyes against the light and, in the haze of waking, allowed himself to relax into the pillows as he tried to orient himself.  How odd. He had not thought to drink anything the night before. Yes…it was all coming back. He had planned to drink only water, to show the Keeper that there was nothing to fear from Vir. The Drakh were growing suspicious of his drinking habits, only allowing it at all because of their certainty that he would not jeopardize his planet. He had to show them that Vir was inconsequential despite being appointed heir. There would still be plenty of time to clear the way for Vir’s succession. Over ten years before G’Kar came for him. In the meantime, Vir would be safe on Babylon 5, far away from the palace. There he could not ask inconvenient questions, or argue against Londo’s policies. He could not lean across a table and ask _have you heard of something called ‘Drakh’_?

Londo shot upright in the bed as the memory burst upon his consciousness. Nausea assaulted his sense at the motion, making him cough and retch. His vision swam as he forced himself to stand. Oh gods, _Vir_ … what had they done to him? He stumbled and fell against the wall, pressing his hand there to steady himself, then scrabbling to find the doorknob. What did it matter if the mad Emperor ran out in his dressing gown? None of it mattered if Vir was dead, if Morella’s prediction was false. Vir must follow him as Emperor, he _must_ , or Londo was flying blind, no longer certain if the path ahead of him lead to the salvation of his people. He thought for a moment that his hearts would fail again as he turned the knob and found it locked.

“There is no need to fear,” a familiar voice, like the rustle of dry leaves, spoke from behind him. He turned to see Shiv’kala step from the shadows.

“What have you done with him?” Londo said, unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

Shiv’kala blinked its red, reptilian eyes. “He is alive.” Londo’s legs weakened as relief flooded his system. “He is resting now, while the joining completes.”

This brought him up short. “Joining?” Londo said, his brow furrowing.

“He has volunteered to take your place, and we have accepted.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath Londo’s feet and for a moment he could only stare, his mind utterly blank, as Shiv’kala’s words sank in. Somewhere, beneath the blanket of shock, a sense of mounting dread turned his stomach and weighed his limbs down like lead. But these were merely physical responses. His mind was already struggling forward, pushing past the frozen state. If he stopped now, if he paused for even a second to consider the Drakh’s words might true, that Vir was irrevocably under their control…the horror of that thought might mean he would never move again. And then Vir would truly be alone.

Vir _. Great Maker, Vir, what have you done?_ He shook his head to snap himself free of those thoughts before they could drag him under. He focused on Shiv’kala, at first only able to sputter before his words rose to a roar. “Impossible, I am still alive. I am still Emperor! _I will not allow it_.”

Shiv’kala stared down at him, impassive and inscrutable as a pillar of stone. “You are nothing to us now. You will leave this planet, and you will keep our secret lest we destroy it in fire,” Shiv’kala said. “The Drakh Entire has agreed. This one is young, and will give us less trouble than you. Do not think we were unaware of your thoughts, Mollari. We know of your prophecies, your plans to reveal us and drive us from your planet. Your punishment for betraying our masters is no longer of importance compared to the threat you pose to the larger plan. But we keep our bargains, and the one you call Vir Cotto demanded your safety in exchange.”

“No, no you cannot do this!” Londo snarled, going toe-to-toe with the looming Drakh. Only in a small corner of his mind did he notice how nothing drew him up short, and the lack of threatening pain as he drove his finger at Shiv’kala’s cragged face. “This was not our arrangement!”

“It is already done,” said Shiv’kala, with no visible reaction to Londo’s bluster. “What you will or will not allow means nothing to us.” It paused and regarded him him, any emotion it may have felt unreadable on such alien features. “Though I confess, it will be strange for a time, not knowing your mind as I once did. I wonder…why both of you have tried to save the other. Why you think you can.”

Londo clapped his hand to his shoulder as Shiv’kala’s words penetrated the haze of panic, shock paralyzing his body as he made contact. Nothing. There was nothing to stop him from touching the place where the Keeper had once clung like a bloated tick. There was no second presence in his mind, no dispassionate eye of the Drakh peeling away the layers of his memories and thoughts like a scalpel. He shuddered and exhaled, his hearts thundering in his ears. “Why? Why have you let me go? Why not kill me? Great Maker, why didn’t you _kill_ _me_?”

Kill him so one prophecy at least might have been salvaged: that Vir would succeed him. That Vir would save their people. But that could only happen if he was dead. For the first time since he had first had his death dream he was no longer certain how it would all end, and the steady ground upon which all his decisions had been based crumbled beneath his feet.

“It was not a part of our bargain,” said Shiv’kala. He stepped away, his form blending back into the shadows. “Farewell, Mollari, we will not speak again.”

“No, I am not finished with you! Get back here!” Londo growled, his hand grasping at air as he tried to seize the Drakh. He spun to face the wall where it had disappeared. “I am the one you wanted! Give it back to me, curse you! Or I swear I will spend my every waking moment hunting you down. I will destroy you, do you hear me? Give it back!” He slammed his fist against the blank wall. “Get back here!” 

But there was no answer from the wall, and Shiv’kala did not rematerialize. Londo returned to the door but, try as he might, it remained stubbornly locked. The comm system, too, refused respond to his bellowed orders. And so the first hours of freedom Londo Mollari had experienced in over three years passed unappreciated, drowned in fear and rage. 

* * *

Londo’s head was drooping with exhaustion when the knock came and the door opened. Vir stood there, still in his usual brown suit, his head bowed. Londo rose stiffly at the sight of him, straightening his dressing gown in some poor attempt at dignity. For a moment they stood in silence, as if arrayed against one another in a duel. Then Vir’s shoulders sagged and he looked up.

“Hello, Londo,” Vir sighed.

“Is it true?” Londo said. The Keeper was not visible on Vir’s shoulder, but then again it wouldn’t be. For a split second he allowed himself to hope there was still time to prevent this madness altogether. Perhaps it needed more time to recover before it could make the transition. But Vir nodded his head, hands twitching upwards as if to point to where it sat invisible, before a greater force pushed them back to his side. Londo knew the feeling well, and his stomach roiled at the sight. 

“Vir…Great Maker, Vir, why? Why did you do it?” Londo said in honest incomprehension. How had he known? And why, after everything Londo had done, would Vir offer himself in exchange?

Vir looked down, avoiding Londo’s gaze. “Because you’ve been alone in this for far too long.” His words struck Londo like a blow. It had been years since another had risked his life for him. After years sacrificing him every day at the altar of Centauri Prime, a sacrifice he gladly made, Vir’s words were almost incomprehensible. No, this had to be stopped. He could not indulge in the warmth of love that washed over him in a painful wave. He must do what was necessary to save Vir, even if it meant making him an enemy. 

“Bah,” Londo said, waving a dismissive hand. He turned his back momentarily, so Vir could not see the twist of agony in his face. “I have always been alone. It was _my_ burden to bear, _my_ punishment. You were already destined to be Emperor, must you take _everything_?” Vir flinched as if struck, his eyes widening. However, any regret Londo might have felt at these brutal, but necessary, words had been burned away during the hours of agonized waiting. “Tell them you no longer want it. Tell them to give it back to me!”

“Londo…”

“ _Now_!”

Vir blinked and tilted his head to the side as if listening. “Londo, they say they don’t want to. They’ve made their decision.”

“Oh? And what is it that you have that I do not, hmm?” Londo took a step forward, and glaring at the spot on Vir’s shoulder where he knew the Keeper hid. “Do you not recall how I destroyed your master’s ships with the crew still inside? Or the time I beheaded your emissary? Oh yes, the amiable _Mr. Morden_. His face was not so pretty once it was decorating that pike.” The air shimmered on Vir’s shoulder and the Keeper appeared, its yellow eye fixed on Londo. “You do? Good, good. And what if I told that there are few little _surprises_ I’ve managed to hide from you and your associates all this time? Well, it hardly matters, since you will never again be in here.” He tapped a finger to his forehead.

“Londo, stop it,” Vir said wearily.

Londo rounded on him with a snarl, “Do you have any _idea_ what you have disrupted with your so-called help?”

“No, and its best you don’t tell me.” Vir winced. “It says… that’s why they let you go. They expect me to be much more…obedient. And if you act on your plans now…” his breath caught. “They will detonate the bombs one by one, starting with the capital.”

Londo opened his mouth for another retort, but at the sight of Vir’s eyes, shadowed and defeated, he stopped, deflating with a sigh. “Great Maker, Vir… it was not supposed to be like this.”

“You mean the prophecies?” Vir said with a sad shake of his head. “They don’t mean anything, Londo. They never did.” The old instinct arose to disagree, to remind Vir that ‘we Centauri’ are certain of these things. But that would be a lie, and that realization was only now crashing down on him. For the first time in his life the vision of his death, which had been so strong, so vivid and unquestionable, had been proven false. He had believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the prophecies would come true, that in the end he would save his people even as he died at G’Kar’s hands. Had he not, he would surely have gone mad. But Vir did not have this assurance, and Londo wanted nothing more than to contradict him, to offer some small hope even if it was a lie.

Vir grimaced, holding up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to argue with you. I just came to say goodbye.” Londo looked up, stricken. “They agreed they would send you to Babylon 5, along with Lady Cantori. She has already been informed that any mention of the Drakh will mean the death of billions. But with you…they say they don’t trust you.” Vir gulped. “The conditions for your life are that you can never come back to Centauri Prime, and that you won’t be allowed to speak of what you know.” 

“And how exactly do they plan to accomplish this?” Londo said mockingly, but kept his hands clenched at his sides lest they creep to his throat. Great Maker, did they plan to cut out his tongue? Remove his hands? Well, damn them, he would write with his nose if he had to! Whatever it took, he would see them _burn_. The sensation of anger, the ability to _feel_ after years as their prisoner was intoxicating, but he had no time to savor it. Even now the Keeper stared at him from Vir’s shoulder, as if it did not need to touch him to know what he was thinking. He glared back, daring it.

“They won’t explain, but they say it won’t cause any lasting harm,” Vir said. “That was our contract.”

“How considerate,” Londo sneered, directing his next words at the Keeper. “Tell them they can take their contract and shove it into whatever dark hole they came from. And tell them I hope they are enjoying this little game of theirs because they will _not survive it_.”

Vir flinched at his words, bringing one hand up to cradle his forehead. “Londo,” he said, in a pained whisper, “Please, stop provoking them. I know you’re angry, but you’re only annoying it. They say to tell you that I will pay the price for your insults. They say you know what that means.”

Londo froze, his throat constricting in a mix of fear and horror as images of Vir – writhing on the floor in agony, or frozen for hours in the prison of his own body – flashed before his eyes. “Oh gods, Vir…” he breathed. Suddenly all thought of prophecies or destiny fled his mind and he saw was Vir, the Keeper burrowed into his shoulder. All the walls he had built, the fortress of rage he had constructed around himself that was the only thing keeping him upright, crumbled. He swayed as he realized the nightmare image, the one that woke him with greater terror than he had ever felt over the death dream, now stood before him. Vir as Emperor of a Centauri Prime not yet free of the Drakh, a Keeper entwined around his throat, torturing him should he disobey their commands. Londo’s hand came up convulsively, to deny what he saw, to comfort Vir, and he stood frozen as Vir watched, his eyes darkened with pain.

“I don’t regret it,” said Vir, as if wordlessly understanding Londo’s thoughts. He drew himself upright despite the obvious pain that twisted his features. “I’m just sorry you had to do this alone for so long. It’s going to be all right, Londo. I promise, we’ll make it all right.” He offered his arms and Londo realized he was bidding farewell, a formal salute between two soldiers. He took the proffered arms, clasping his hands around Vir’s wrists. It was only then that he realized Vir was trembling.

The act was abrupt, instinctive as Londo dragged Vir into his arms, being careful not to disturb the Keeper on Vir’s shoulder. “I’m scared, Londo,” Vir whispered into the crook of his neck. Vir's body was shaking, Londo realized. His vision blurred into a red haze of rage. Rage that the child who had walked onto Babylon 5 all those years ago as his attaché had been forced to watch him scheme and manipulate, and for what? So that Londo might gain Refa’s favor? To put Cartagia on the throne? To lose the last of his innocence when he plunged the needle between the mad Emperor’s hearts? And now this, to become the prisoner of the Drakh while Londo walked free, his sins like a bloodstain that could never be washed away. He realized he was clutching Vir too tight, but he could not stop because there were no words, no words at all.

Slowly the shaking ceased and Londo could feel the Keeper pulling Vir away, his whole body following the tug at his shoulder like a marionette on a single string. “I have to go now,” Vir said simply, his voice free of fear.

In that moment Londo realized his error. This was not the child he had met all those years ago. No, the truth was that Vir had not only become a better man than he, but also a braver one. If Vir trembled it was because he grasped the true terror of what he faced and still would not turn away. And he did so without the lifetime of sins that had weighed Londo down, without the guilt and knowledge of the road that had brought him to a prison he so richly deserved. Vir was not responsible for any of it. Quite the opposite. Of all of them there in that station amongst the stars there had been only one person who had never wavered, even though he lacked power, and destiny, and allies. Who had stood against the greatest and most formidable forces of the universe without giving in. Of all of them there was no one who deserved the living torment of the Drakh less than Vir Cotto, and perhaps that only proved what Londo had claimed to know but could never truly let himself believe – that the universe was indeed a place of random cruelty and injustice. That there were no prophesies, no paths or predictions of the future to guide the poor mortal creatures hurtling through that pitiless void. For how, in a rational and knowable universe, could Vir receive the punishment for all Londo had done?

“Londo?” He looked up, realizing his hands ached from where he had been clenching his nails into the soft flesh of his palms. He shook himself free of his thoughts and saw Vir looking at him, eyes sad but without a trace of uncertainty. “Don’t blame yourself for this. Go to Babylon 5. Be free. I need to know that you’re out there somewhere, that it was all worth it. If… if you can give me that much, I think I might be able to make it.” And with that he turned away, walking stiffly towards the door.

Londo caught his hand a moment before he disappeared, grasping it in his own. “I will, Vir. Just hold on.” Vir turned, their eyes meeting for only a moment before his hand was torn from Londo’s grasp. “Promise me you will hold on!” Londo called desperately, willing Vir to hear what could not be spoken in front of the Keeper. _I will save you. I will save all of us._

 _Just hold on._  


	3. Vir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amatara is busy at the moment, so she will not be beta-ing this chapter. I say this only so it is clear that all the mistakes are my own.
> 
> I had a great deal of fun writing Minister Durla in this chapter. If you have read the “Legion of Fire” Trilogy by Peter David, you will recognize that he is a completely different character when I write him. This is because I had major issues with his portrayal in the books. I hope you will enjoy reading my reinterpretation of his character as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Vir closed the door to Londo's chamber behind him, his friend's words echoing in his ears.  _Hold on_. He closed his eyes against the sound of Londo's fist striking the wall, a sound he knew well. He could close his eyes and see the wall on Babylon 5 where Londo's fist had left a habitual mark after long or irritating council sessions. A strangled sound, a sob, followed and Vir turned to go back in, to offer Londo some comfort.

Or would have, if not for the Keeper at his shoulder dragging him on.

' _Come. We have much to do,'_  it hissed inside his mind. There was little point in resisting and Vir walked where the Keeper led him at a sharp clip, leaving Londo and the sound of angry weeping behind.

He recognized his destination shortly, as he turned the corner to the throne room. The guards parted to let him through, not bowing but not sneering either. It was as if they did not quite know what to do with him, which was rather fitting, as he had no idea what to do with himself. The gold-wrought gates opened and he saw a man standing at the center of the room, facing the throne.

"Ah, Ambassador Cotto," the man said, turning. He was a middle aged, but had the hardened look of a fighting man. He seemed barely contained by the finery of his suit, as if he belonged in a uniform, or armor. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you after hearing so much. I am Prime Minister Durla. Emperor Mollari spoke very highly of you." There was a coldness about the way he addressed Vir, his smile not quite touching his eyes, as if he were wearing the mask of a nobleman over his own face. There was nothing overtly offensive about him, nothing that Vir could point to as the reason for his instant distaste.

Prime Minister Durla. Vir knew the name. The former Captain of the Imperial Guard, his rise to power had been meteoric, as one after another Londo's ministers had refused to carry out the executions and been sacrificed along with those they had tried to protect. There was nothing to prove that Durla was complicit, but his ongoing presence implied that he had done nothing to stop the proscriptions.

Once the ministers had been executed, their wealth was confiscated and their names disgraced. Sometimes the man did not die alone, if a wife or beloved son had been too vocal in his defense. Vir's stomach turned at the memory and the realization that each of those families had died, not for disloyalty, but for how close they came to discovering the Drakh's secret.

"Minister Durla," Vir said stiffly. He offered his hands in greeting to Durla, unable to keep a flash of Londo's anguished face as they parted from obscuring his vision. Durla grasped Vir's forearms and when they broke apart he walked towards the window, gesturing for Vir to follow.

"Centauri Prime is not what it once was, Ambassador. I think you will find the city much changed since the last time you were here," said Durla. He parted the thick curtains that obscured the window, pointing down to the city. Cranes and other machinery dotted the city, but there were fewer than there should be under the circumstances. Huge tracts of the urban sprawl were little more than rubble. "The people grow discontent with the pace of the reconstruction, with the crippling reparations, with the Alliance. The natural response to this should be obvious."

"Yes, of course," Vir said, his hearts twisting in his chest. Perhaps the Drakh would allow him to alleviate some small part of their suffering. Even they must realize such a state could not continue forever. He might need to beg them, or trade with them in order to get anything, but he had to try.

"I thought so. I had taken you for an intelligent man, despite what others might say," said Durla. He smiled, and once again it did not touch his eyes. "The natural response to such dissatisfaction is treason and rebellion, even in the highest circles of our society. It must be stopped at any cost, destroyed root and branch before it has the chance to flourish. Otherwise we will descend into anarchy. I'm sure you will agree."

"Yes, I… wait, what? Treason? Minister Durla, our people have lost  _everything_. They are homeless, shell-shocked. Some of them are starving! And you're worried about  _treason_?" Vir felt a warning tug from the Keeper. In a flash it showed him its thoughts. It was displeased that he questioned the allegations of treason, as it had proved a convenient front for protecting the secret of their presence on Centauri Prime. A shudder ran through his body from scalp to toes as the jellyfish-sting of warning trailed along his nervous system. Durla did not appear to notice.

"It is in such an environment that discontent flourishes, Ambassador," said Durla. Vir realized in a flash of horror that there was not a shred of irony or sarcasm in Durla's tone. The man was in deadly earnest. "It must be burned away along with the rest of the rubble if we are to properly rebuild. Even those who stand at the very top are not free of its influence."

"Like the ministers the Emperor had executed?" Vir said weakly.

"Precisely. I am glad you have such a swift grasp of the situation. Others have been too slow in this regard, and have fallen prey to the same dissenting voices that threaten our Republic," said Durla.

"I'll keep that in mind," muttered Vir.

"As well you should. I think we're going to get along, Ambassador," Durla said, clapping a hand on Vir shoulder just inches from where the Keeper squatted. A shock ran through Vir's body at the contact, but the Keeper did not stir. It seemed…amused at Vir's plight. "Which is rather a good thing, don't you think? The future Emperor and his Prime Minister should get along, for the good of the people." He gave a broad smile that reminded Vir of Mr. Morden.

"You know about that already?" Vir blinked.

"Of course. I am the Prime Minister, after all. It is my job to be informed," said Durla. "A terrible shame regarding Emperor Mollari's health. But I understand he was under a great deal of stress and had already suffered one heart attack while on Babylon 5. Some people are simply not cut out for the stresses of power. It is quite fortunate that he had so recently appointed you as his successor, otherwise there is no telling what chaos might have erupted, or who would have emerged the victor." He gave Vir's shoulder a companionable squeeze. "There will be much work ahead of us once you are raised to Emperor, but I believe between the two of us we may carve a fresh future for Centauri Prime."

"The Centaurum will need to approve my elevation to Emperor before any work can begin," Vir pointed out. "And that should take days, weeks even."

"Ah yes, the Centaurum." Durla gave a small chuckle. "I do not believe they will prove an encumbrance. Most have fled to their country estates, and the loyalty of those who remain is without question."

"I see. And how many remain, exactly?" said Vir cautiously.

"Approximately one hundred," said Durla, but did not clarify which of those remained in the capital and how many remained amongst the living.

Vir gaped. "Only one hundred? You're saying less than  _a third_  of the Centaurum is still here? How is the government functioning? You can't even hold a vote with so few!"

"The numbers matter little. A few good men are more effective than an army of saboteurs and incompetents," Durla said smoothly. "You should not concern yourself over such things. Suffice to say, by tomorrow evening you will be Emperor."

Vir reeled, only his few years spent as Ambassador kept him from falling to the floor. How had he not known of the state of the Centaurum? Did anyone know? How was he to rule effectively when the government was a shadow of its former self?

' _You will not_.  _This is the will of the Drakh Entire,_ ' the Keeper whispered in his mind.  _'Your duty is to obey_.'

A question flared in his mind, but Vir quashed it before he could see its shape. Something must be done, but he did not yet know enough to even grasp the full extent of the damage, much less form a strategy. He could feel the Keeper coming alert at the train of thought, and he forced his mind to blankness.

"Of course, Minister Durla," he said. "I look forward to it." Durla returned the smile, which held just the barest flash of teeth, as if contemplating a bit of foolish prey skirting the edge of a trap. Vir looked away, hoping that Durla had not caught him watching. He tried not to think of the abyss that gaped before him, and the razor-thin path that was his only hope of reaching the other side. If there even was another side.

By the end of his meeting with Durla, he could feel his mind dulling and his limbs drooping, despite the early hour. Having the Keeper attached was like a low-grade fever, sapping the edges of his energy, such that every step and breath became more difficult, until he was utterly drained. He would have liked to think the Keeper too was exhausted, but the creature's thoughts and physical state were as closed to him as his were open to it. He made his way down the long hallway, the setting sun casting blades of red light across the floor, to the small quarters that had been set aside for him when he made his last minute trip from Babylon 5. He felt a pang at the thought, of the friends and the unfinished business he had left behind. Would he even be allowed to tell them what had happened? Well, they would likely learn of it soon enough, on ISN if nowhere else.

He had closed the door to his quarters behind him and was leaning against the door when the realization struck. He was going to be  _Emperor_. He staggered at the thought. Yesterday he had been just Vir Cotto. Plain, unassuming, a bit bumbling. Yes, he was an Ambassador, but most people didn't hold that against him. Within the last day he had learned he was to be the heir, then had been in fact promoted. That alone would have been enough to leave him flustered and panicking, if not for the other minor details. If not for learning the truth behind the atrocities that had destroyed his planet, his government, and very nearly his friend.

In all of it there was only one comfort: that Londo wouldn't suffer further, that he would get away. And, a small part of his mind whispered despite his best efforts, maybe Londo will find help. A tingle of pain spread across his shoulder but it was minor, like a pinched nerve. It held a note of disapproval, and perhaps exhaustion. The Keeper too may be tired and unable to spare the energy or the interest to punish him for the traitorous thought.

Vir removed his coat and began to undress, carefully placing each article in the wardrobe. He supposed it didn't matter. His wardrobe would likely be replaced, whether he wished it or not. Unlike Londo, and almost every other Centauri he knew, he had never desired the position. Though he had never met Emperor Turhan, he had always though he saw a trace of sadness in the man's ancient eyes every time his face appeared on the news vids. He had found himself pitying Turhan, even while those around him envied him.

Vir sat on the bed, and after a moment stretched full out, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow he would be the Emperor of a people beaten and enslaved, though they could not see their chains. Tomorrow Londo would be safely on his way to Babylon 5, far away from the pain and darkness that had swallowed him these past years. Tomorrow Durla would be his Prime Minister, the Drakh would be his masters, and he would be forced to hurt his planet in order to keep his people alive. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… the words had the ring of familiarity, like a half-remembered poem, perhaps something he had heard back on Babylon 5. Back home.

Tomorrow would come whether he planned for it or not, and he had done everything he could for now. For the first time in that exhausting, horrifying day, Vir let the walls of his courage down. The shield of numbness he had placed between himself and the full understanding of all that had happened, and how much it had hurt. He turned his face into the pillow and for a terrified moment he felt nothing except blank horror. No, not like this. This was his time. He had to let himself feel this  _now_. There would be no time to mourn later. He had to allow himself this one night.

When the floodgates opened, he cried like he had not since he was a child, deep gulping sobs. He sobbed until he was sick, until he was too exhausted to move. And still it wasn't enough to fully grasp it all, the loss of it all. His fear for his people and for himself. How would he do it all? How could one man possibly do it all? He was surrounded by madmen and monsters, strangled by a creature that squatted invisibly beneath his skin and burrowed into his brain. He could not call for help and he could not go home. He could only go onward and hope that somewhere on the other side of this abyss there was an end to it all besides the grave.

But, as he cried himself to sleep, he could not help but think that was too much to hope for, even for him.

* * *

Vir woke the next day to a dull roar outside his window. His quarters were at the distant end of the palace, not far from the walls that overlooked the city but nearly a mile of corridors away from where Londo waited for his shuttle off Centauri Prime.

It felt almost unnecessary to flip aside the curtains to catch a glimpse of the angry mob that had gathered outside the palace. Living on Babylon 5 for a few years gives one a certain familiarity with the sound of a riot. The only difference here was that the crowd was entirely Centauri, and when he squinted he could see they were making no attempt to breech the gates, only milling angrily beyond them. Impossible to tell at this distance what the commotion was about. Vir changed hurriedly into the same brown suit he had worn from Babylon 5. Though he could feel the presence of the Keeper on his shoulder it did not seem to be disturbed when he threw on his shirt and coat. The creature had some ability to phase out of existence, allowing the fabric to pass over it so it sat atop his clothing without losing contact with his flesh. That, coupled with its ability to be invisible to all but those it chose, was all Vir had been able to determine about the creature over the course of the day.

He was struggling with a cufflink as he made his way down the corridor to the throne room. Servants were everywhere, but again none seemed to pay him any mind unless they actually collided with him, something that happened several times in the crush of bodies. "Excuse me, sorry, pardon…has anyone seen the Prime Minister? You… no? Can someone tell me what's going on?"

He caught a noblewoman in a rich brocaded red gown by the arm as she hustled past him and she rounded on him, disdain twisting her lips. "What is the  _meaning_ of this? Unhand me!"

"I'm sorry…really, very sorry, but no one will tell me what's happening. Why is there a crowd outside?" stammered Vir. The lady tore her arm free, her face contorting with rage.

"Haven't you heard? Those murderers in the Alliance have assassinated the Emperor!"

Vir stared, and for a moment it was as if the woman was very far away, shouting and gesticulating, her face going as red as her dress, but he could not hear what she said. He shook his head, squinting as if it would somehow take that collection of random nonsense syllables and turn them into words. The woman only grew more incensed by his blank look and stormed away.

"But…you promised," Vir said stupidly to the thing on his shoulder. If it said anything, or sent another shockwave of pain through his system, he could not tell. His body was numb, and dread crept down his veins like ice across the surface of a river.

He broke into a run, faces blurring around him as he shoved his way through the crowd. The shouting was a distant buzzing in his ears, the thunder of his own hearts keeping pace with the steady stream of  _nonononononononono_ that drowned all other thought.

A ring of guards encircled the Imperial suite and Vir shoved his way passed the crowd of courtiers that surrounded them, dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs and making a great show of their grief. A matronly noblewoman squawked with indignation as Vir pushed her to the side, staring up into the face of the guard at the front.

"Londo…?" Vir panted, craning his neck to look passed the guard into the open door of the suite.

"Ambassador Cotto," the guard said, lowering his gaze to regard Vir.

"Please, you have to let me through."

"We have orders to take you to the Prime Minister once you were awake. We were not expecting you for some time. Come with me," the first guard nodded to the second. The man detached himself from the doorway, taking Vir by the arm to lead him through the crowd and to the elevator. They stopped at the highest floor. Down the wide, sweeping corridor, Vir saw Durla standing on the balcony of the central tower overlooking the city.

"Ah, Cotto, good to see you are awake," Durla greeted, sparing Vir only a glance over his shoulder before turning back to the city. Or at least he would have, had Vir not grabbed him by the lapels, dragging the Prime Minister around to face him.

"What happened to Londo?" Vir said, his voice raw and broken. He could barely breathe passed the lump in his throat and his eyes burned with the threat of tears. That he looked more than a little crazed he did not doubt. The unfamiliar feeling of rage welled in his stomach as Durla blinked lazily at him, and turned his cold gaze down to Vir's hands.

"Absolutely nothing." Durla wrapped one large, muscular hand around Vir's wrist and  _twisted_ , detaching his grip without any sign of effort. Not that much was required; Vir could have been easily knocked over with a feather at that point.

"Nothing? But the crowds, the people…" Vir shook his head dazedly. "They said…"

"I assure you, the  _former_  Emperor has taken no harm. I simply had him removed to different quarters, for his own safety you understand. He put up quite a fight too for a man his age, like a crazed  _leati_."

"But  _why_?"

"Well, I certainly have no idea. We simply needed to prepare the quarters for you. The man has clearly lost his mind, you know. We are fortunate that you were here to save the Centauri court from another mad Emperor."

"Not that, the people! Why have you told the people he's dead?" Vir cried, even as relief swept his system. Not dead, thank the gods, not dead.

Durla gave him a pitying look. "Politics, Cotto, nothing more. I understand you've had little need to worry about such things on Babylon 5, so take this as a lesson. Look around you," he said, making a sweeping gesture out to the streets and the crowd of angry Centauri. It had grown since Vir had seen it from his window, and pockets of churned amongst the throng as fights broke out. One spark was all that would be needed to start a riot, and there was no telling how many would be killed in the crush of bodies, trampled underfoot or squeezed together with nowhere to run.

"I have been thinking a great deal about what you said yesterday. You are quite correct, the people are shocked, starving, and angry. Like an injured animal, they lash out at whatever target presents itself. More drastic measures will be needed to curb their hostility towards the government, unless we can find a way to redirect it. I began the rumor of Mollari's death at the hands of the Alliance for just that purpose. After all, when the Great Maker presents us with an opportunity it is impious not to take it. Whatever his flaws, Mollari was our Emperor, and the people's rage is now safely and productively directed at the Alliance."

"Prime Minister, you must realize this can't possibly work. Londo isn't going into exile on a remote planet. He's retiring to Babylon 5. People will see him there, they'll know he isn't dead!" Vir said.

Durla shrugged, "If necessary we will simply release a corrective statement. Quietly, of course, and for official record only. By that time, the waters will be sufficiently muddied that it will be impossible to separate truth from rumor. The Alliance's denial will appear flimsy and transparent, and Mollari's presence a cleverly placed duplicate to cover the lie. Such a statement would even work in our favor, as a sign that we were forced against our will to cover the truth. No matter how it turns out, the people will rally around the government and against the Alliance."

"How is that in any way a good decision? Don't you see that the people are already furious over the reparations? If we blame Sheridan for an assassination… it'll start a war! One that we can't possible win! If we even try…" Vir's breath caught. There it was again, a flash of the idea. For a blinding second he saw the full extent of it and he marveled, his stomach churning even as his heart leapt. Yes. Great Maker, yes, it could work. But not now. He blanked his mind, as he felt a stirring of the Keeper's interest. But somehow, impossibly, it did not punish him or seem to fully grasp what his thoughts. Perhaps it was as curious as he. And that was the key to it all, wasn't it?

"Leave such worries to me, Ambassador," said Durla, placing stress on Vir's title. "You need only concern yourself with the coronation while I take care of the rest. Is that not my duty as your Prime Minister?"

Vir's gaze flickered between Durla, to the crowd below, to the palace behind. His mind was still dazed from that brief flash of inspiration, while his hearts still thundered and stomach roiled from the fear for Londo, the sudden relief, and the new fear of this man before him. Monsters on all sides, and the abyss beneath, with the Centauri people hanging in the balance. And all of it depending on that half-formed thought that he could not even dwell on, for fear of rousing the Keeper. That, and his ability to lie. A depressing thought all on its own.

"Yes, of course," he stuttered, pulling himself down and in to himself. He had always been beneath notice, forgotten, underestimated, and ignored. Kicked to the side because fussy, bumbling little Vir Cotto wasn't a threat to anyone. He saw the glint in Durla's eye as the man watched him. Soon, Vir would be the most powerful man on Centauri Prime, and he must be as unnoticed and ignorable as he had been on his first day as Londo's attaché. He had never been a good liar, but perhaps if he allowed others to lie to themselves…. He plastered on a nervous smile. "Whatever you think is best, Minister Durla."

Perhaps, if he allowed others to lie to themselves, there might be some hope for Centauri Prime.


	4. Londo

They came for Londo in the early hours of the morning, when the palace was still quiet. They did not knock to alert him of their presence, and so found him dozing against the headboard. His body was turned towards the door as if in anticipation, and in truth he had only meant to rest his eyes for a few minutes while waiting for his next opportunity to act. He had waited hours; clutching the increasingly futile hope that Vir would return and admit the whole ordeal had been a mistake. He had tried not to dwell on the fact that even should the Drakh allow such a change of heart, Vir had little chance of surviving it.

He came awake as a hand shook him and he felt a flash of rage rise quick and instinctive at the impertinence. Beneath that lurked the old, cringing fear that the Keeper would be revealed while he was asleep and powerless. His eyes opened even as his hand came up to strike his attacker, to turn their face before they could see.

A stronger grip than his caught his wrist and he recoiled to see one of the palace guards leaning over him, helmet and breastplate glinting in the early morning light. “Your Majesty, you must come with me,” the man said. Londo looked up blearily, the fog of exhaustion still confusing his thoughts. The man shook him again. “With all due respect, please hurry.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Londo grumbled, his words slurring as he threw off the effects of sleep. For a split second, hope churned wildly in his chest like a flame, only to be doused as the guard drew back.

“An order has come down that you are to be moved to different quarters while awaiting your transport to Babylon 5. I am to offer our most sincere apologies for the inconvenience, and assure you that your belongings are ready and waiting at your destination. These rooms must be cleaned and made ready for the next Emperor. If you will please come with me.”

Londo's mouth twisted for a retort, but his just then his eyes drifted over the guard’s shoulder. Beyond him lay the door to Londo’s chamber, open and tantalizing. If he could remain on Centauri Prime, he might try once more to convince the Drakh to return the Keeper and let Vir go. Or, his head spun as the thought occurred, work behind the scenes to cast them out.  Without the Keeper there was nothing to prevent him from telling others of their presence. He could save his people, rescue Vir, crush the Drakh beneath his…

“Your Majesty?”

He dragged his eyes away from the door and said with unfeigned irritation, “And I suppose I am to travel as I am, hmm? The dignity of the Centauri Republic carried by an old man in nothing but his dressing gown?” he scoffed.

The guard glanced to the side in obvious discomfort. “I would not have it so, your Majesty.” Londo smiled inwardly. “But I’m afraid there isn’t time. I have orders to bring you to your new quarters within the next few minutes. We have the corridors cleared, you see, but we can only block them for so long before others might grow suspicious.”

 _‘_ _Well let them! It_ _’_ _s about time_ someone _grew a bit suspicious around here,_ ’ he thought. But he had not reached his current position (alive and in possession of all his limbs) by speaking what was on his mind. Instead, the corner of his thoughts that deserved some credit for his continuing pulse recognized a potential ally. “What is your name, young man?”

“Darro, your Majesty. Of House Guerra,” the guard, Darro, said. Quick and efficient, his mouth moving to obey a command before his brain could catch up. Traditional, well-trained, not very bright, and perhaps useful.

“And are you a patriot, Darro of House Guerra?” Londo said.

Darro blinked, taken aback by the question. When he answered his voice held such urgency that it struck an echoing pang in Londo’s hearts. “Your Majesty, if you took away everything of me that loves Centauri Prime then there would be nothing left.”

“Well spoken,” said Londo with a nod. “And what do you think of this plan to rid yourself of an Emperor without the voice or consent of the Centaurum?”

A shadow passed over Darro’s face. “The Centaurum has spoken, your Majesty, through Prime Minister Durla.”

Londo hissed, “ _Durla_? _He_ gave the order?”

“On their behalf. You…you are not well, your Majesty. I’m sure the Prime Minister had only your best interests at heart when allowing your early retirement.” Darro said, then hesitated. “It is better this way. You will be well remembered and have the chance to live out the rest of your days in peace, without causing any embarrassment to yourself or the court.” Londo realized he must reevaluate his opinion. A patriot, yes, but of the special brand that owed their allegiance to his monster of a Prime Minister. It did not help that anything Londo might say would be dismissed as madness or encroaching senility. This one would not be swayed, and there would be no convincing Darro that he still held possession of his wits. After all, in his darker moments, Londo could not entirely convince himself.

He had the advantage of surprise on several fronts, not the least of which was that he was an out of shape old man in a dressing gown. Londo saw his opening and struck. Though not nearly as strong or as quick as his opponent, his muscles still remembered something of their dueling days in the _Couro Prido_. And even if he had no hope of knocking Darro cold, what with his helmet, no race in the universe enjoyed being punched in the face. He heard the welcome, if sickening, sound of bone crunching beneath his knuckles. Darro staggered back, clutching his nose as it spurted a fountain of blood between his fingers. Londo dove passed him.

He raced for the door when a sudden, insane thought occurred to him. ' _G_ _’_ _Kar would have enjoyed this_.' The hallway would be empty, Darro had said. If he could just slip into one of the servant’s corridors, a change of clothes, a haircut, and he might disappear into the masses. He could not leave Vir alone here. He must-

He struck something with a clang and fell back, stars exploding across his vision at the impact. Not a wall, he realized as strong hands seized his arms and dragged him upright. Two guards held him now. They must have been concealed on either side of the door.

A sudden, incandescent bolt of rage struck him and he nearly snarled as he struggled to tear his arms free of their grasp. These were _his_ guards, and Drakh be damned, _he_ was the Emperor. He would not be carried away over some meathead’s shoulder like a sack!

“Let go of me,” he growled, and when the grip only tightened he dragged himself around and spat over his shoulder. “Stand _down_. You are handling the person of the Emperor of the Centauri Republic. Stand down, or I will have you all _executed_ for this treachery!”

A frisson of terror ran through their bodies, tightening the muscles and freezing their expressions into a wide-eyed rictus. The satisfaction of the verbal blow was almost enough to offset the churning horror and shame in his gut at the reminder of those executions. He felt their grips weaken, and for a glorious moment prepared to tear himself free and make his escape. The halls were empty; he need only round a corner…

Darro staggered out of the Imperial quarters, head tilted back to stem the flow of blood that trickled down his chin and stained his teeth. He grimaced, creating a demonic picture with the fury in his eyes and his bloody canines, and came to stand before Londo. All the shy respect and admiration was gone, he blazed as he glared down at his former Emperor. “Get him out of here. The Prime Minister was right, the old man is mad. Get him to his quarters, and by the gods when he gets there lock him up. Ignore anything he says and see that we’re rid of him when his shuttle arrives.” The guards on either side of Londo nodded, straightening and firming their grips as any fear he had managed to put in them drained away.

Londo glared up at Darro from beneath black, furrowed brows. “And what makes you so certain, Darro of House Guerra, that you are not the one who has lost his wits, hmm? Laying hand on the person of the Emperor, carrying out the Prime Minister’s treason? You will be _damned_ for this.”

Darro leaned forward, so close Londo could smell the blood on his breath and see the fine veins in his eye engorged from pain. “Look to your own sins, Mollari. Any fool knows that you have more to answer for than I for laying a hand on an Emperor. We should have had your head on a _pike_ the day Cartagia died.”

Londo kept his expression stony while Darro spewed his venom. Let the man hate him, he was hardly wrong in his estimates, and his glowering anger summoned an answering rage in Londo that kept the despair at bay. Darro’s gaze remained fixed on him even as something moved him, drawing Londo's eye. He watched as one shadow detached from another.

Shiv’Kala was silent as he emerged; ember eyes the only visible point in the darkness of pre-dawn that shadowed the hallway. He hovered beyond Darro’s shoulder, silent as a corpse.

Londo stared and waited for the grip on his arm to tighten from fear when the guards behind him saw the creature before them. Darro of course could not see the horror that waited there, poor fool, but if the guards that held Londo went for their weapons Darro might have a chance. Shiv’Kala’s eyes met Londo’s, and he gave a look of acknowledgement and, the thought seemed bizarre, farewell. The Drakh raised a hand, palm flat towards Londo, and closed his eyes.

“Now, do it!” Londo hissed at the guards. Once, Shiv’Kala standing at such proximity would have sent a chill of pure fear down his spine, but there was too much rage now and too much hatred. He had recovered from his shock at seeing the creature so soon after it claimed they would never speak again and, for a brief second, Londo had thought to renew his plea to switch places with Vir. Except for the first time he had an unparalleled opportunity. Never before had Shiv’Kala appeared before armed guards, and the Keeper would have prevented him from ordering an attack even if he had. Now Londo was under no such constraint. Shiv’Kala’s brow crinkled as if in deep meditation and still Darro rattled on, oblivious to the danger.

“You don’t even realize how lucky you are that they want you on Babylon 5 _intact_. Break my nose? I would cut yours _off_ , old man!” Darro snarled.

“I should think you have a slightly bigger problem than my nose right now,” Londo said, nodding his head towards Shiv’Kala. The Drakh seemed to be muttering under its breath, still holding perfectly still and with his palm open towards Mollari.

“What is he talking about?” Darro said to the two guards who held Londo. They were paralyzed in fear no doubt, and who could blame them when a creature out of nightmare stood not two feet away. The situation would hold its own perverse humor if it weren’t for the fact Londo’s life was in the hands of three guards too stupid or terrified to draw their weapons. The damned creature even had his eyes closed! What were they waiting for?

“There’s nothing behind you, Darro,” said one of the guards with a weary sigh. “The old man is just trying to make a run for it.”

Londo jerked as if shot. Though the hallway was dim there was no possible way Shiv’Kala’s dark form could not be visible. He glanced wildly between the guards that held him, and realized with dawning horror that there was no fear in there eyes at all. If anything they appeared bored. “Impossible,” Londo breathed. “How can you not…? He’s right there!”

Darro gave a growl of annoyance and turned, coming face to face with Shiv’Kala. If he moved even an inch they would collide. Yet he gazed straight through the Drakh and turned back. “Get him to the waiting bay, chain him if you have to, I don’t care,” Darro snapped.

The guard who had spoken nodded sympathetically. “Get yourself to a medic, Darro. We’ll handle him from here.”

“No…no! You must see him!” said Londo, twisting to tear his arms free. “He’s behind you! Great Maker, are you all _blind_?”

Darro waved a hand for the guards to take Londo away, turning and passing _through_ Shiv’Kala. Londo froze, staring as Shiv’Kala’s form rippled like water and Darro emerged on the other side, striding down the hallway with one hand clutched to his nose.

“Come now, Majesty. It’s a short way to the transport, and an easier one if you will walk for yourself,” said one of the guards, but Londo paid no heed. Shiv’Kala’s mouth had stilled and his eyes opened to red slits. Then he extended his arm, and reached for Londo’s face. It did not take incredible insight to realize Shiv’Kala was in no mood to negotiate, and suddenly Vir’s bargain for Londo’s life seemed a flimsy shield at best.

“Run…” whispered Londo, transfixed, as the hand drew closer, swallowing his vision. His hearts thundered and he could feel the air stir as Shiv’Kala reached for him, the clawed fingertips brushing his skin. The spell broke. “ _Run_!” He threw himself backwards against his captors, crashing into them and forcing them down the hallway.

One of the guards grunted at the impact and wrenched Londo upright, pinning Londo’s arm hard against his body to immobilize him. “Darro was right, he is mad. Get him under the shoulder, we’ll have to carry him there.”

Shiv’Kala tilted his head to the side, and Londo could swear that he raised his brow as if in mocking sympathy of Londo’s plight. It was then the horror of it fully sank in. Somehow, no one could see the Drakh save him, and if Shiv’Kala had decided to kill him then he would die without the guards even raising their weapons. Shiv’Kala took another gliding step forward, closing the distance between them, hand outstretched.

“I will walk,” Londo said in a strangled gasp. “I will fly if I have to. But move, now, you imbeciles!” He pressed his back against the guard, nearly climbing them in his struggle to place another inch between himself and Shiv’Kala.

The guards finally turned, thank the gods, and Shiv’Kala fell behind them. They walked at a quick clip, Londo practically dragging them ahead. He spared one last glance over his shoulder. Shiv’Kala was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he must remain still to maintain his invisibility and had chosen to retreat. Londo let out a ragged sigh of relief and turned his gaze forward.

Shiv’Kala struck. One hand wrapped around Londo’s forehead, the clawed fingertips coming to rest on his temples, piercing the flesh. Londo gave a gurgled cry, but it was all he could manage as pain flared. It was as if molten metal was being poured through his brains and down his spine. His vision went black, then white as a howl of agony built and was extinguished in his throat, every sense flared, and his muscles burned. The boiling heat pushed its way like a knife through the brain to his tongue and for a moment of pure animal terror he knew that was how they would silence him, by searing away his eyes and tongue and mouth, leaving him a living husk.

The guards saw none of this. They muttered in annoyance as Mollari froze, grinding their progress to a halt. His eyes had gone wide and staring, then his whole body seized and began to tremble violently. “He’s having a fit!” one of the guards said. “Get something between his teeth, before he bites his tongue out!” Londo gave a renewed shudder, staring in horror at nothing as the guard stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth.

“What do we do?” the second guard asked.

“Get him to the transport station. They’ll have someone see to him there. Hurry!” They hefted Londo between them, and as they did his eyes closed and his body went limp as he fell unconscious.

The mental block now in place, Shiv’Kala stepped aside and watched from the shadows as the guards rushed Mollari away.

* * *

 

A mob had gathered beyond the walls of the palace, seething and pressing against the gates like a tide. Yet from where she stood, Aela Cantori could not make out their words. The sound dissolved into a dull, crashing roar and the guards that surrounded her shifted from foot to foot, their posture stiff and brittle with anxiety.

She clutched the small pack of her belongings against her chest, but there was no comfort to be had there. It held only a few spare changes of clothing, and she reflected bitterly on the journals and data crystals she had been forced to leave behind. Decades of work, her histories, lost.

She had her life, if only barely. The word _drakh_ hovered at the back of her mind, and a part of her still picked at it, rushing scenarios through her head as to its meaning. Yet there was nothing she could do with that knowledge. One word spoken out of turn could mean the death of billions on Centauri Prime, or so she had been assured. How or why had not been told, and she was not so stupid or suicidal as to ask. No, her suicide attempts were limited to a note dropped in Ambassador Cotto’s pocket. Discover the meaning of _drakh_. An organization, she had thought, perhaps named for the _drakh_ race of Centauri fairytale. Who knew? Whatever it was, she was convinced it had something to do with the Emperor’s strange behavior.

She had not sought the company of the Emperor, nor would she have dared. Rather, he had found her, and quite by accident. It seemed he had difficulty sleeping, and would walk the halls of the palace in the late hours of the night. _Like a mad man_ , the courtiers whispered, and there had certainly been some echo of madness in his eyes when he wandered into her corner of the archives, where she had been working late into the night. _‘_ _For a place where one is expected to read you think they would have invested a bit more in the lights,_ _’_ he had remarked, causing her to jump half out of her seat at the unexpected (but not entirely unfamiliar) voice. _‘_ _What are you doing here?_ ” she had asked stupidly, unable to believe that the Emperor she had seen in so many news broadcasts, and in one notable instance projected across the sky, was standing not five feet away. _As I am technically in charge here, I believe I have the right to go where I please within my own palace,_ _’_ he had said and she in turn had flushed with embarrassment and then horror at having questioned the Emperor. But that had faded when he pulled up a seat beside her and craned his head to look over her shoulder. ‘ _And as I am technically your employer, I also believe it is within my right to ask what you are reading at so late an hour._ _’_   That at least was familiar territory, and she had found herself explaining to him her thesis on comparative Human and Centauri xenohistory. She had left her university on Earth and taken a position as a librarian within the Imperial Archives in order to complete it. This was despite the fact she could not expect the same position, payment, or respect for her degree on her ancestral planet. It had been the start of their casual, if odd, friendship. Every month or so, the Emperor would appear in her library, and they would speak of her studies and other inconsequential things. He appeared to take genuine pleasure in her insights on Centauri history, and she in turn was surprised to find she enjoyed his company.

Would that she had not, or she might not have begun to ask questions. How? How could a man who held such respect for the ancient Republic, who often commented derisively on the bloody dictators and murderers of past regimes, also be a man who made laws to destroy those traditions and execute his own ministers on the flimsiest of charges? Could it be that he was not fully in control of his own actions or policies? She had decided to test her hypothesis with an offhand reference to the Human Emperor Nero, and his mother Agrippina who had controlled him in the early years of his reign. A shadow had passed over Emperor Mollari’s features, and the subject was quickly changed. But that had been enough to confirm her worst suspicions, and she could think of no more terrifying force than one that could put fear into the eyes of the ultimate authority on Centauri Prime.

A word had surfaced in the underground currents of court gossip. _Drakh_. Rumor had it the guard who first mentioned the name was never seen again. When she learned that Ambassador Cotto was coming from Babylon 5, she had seized upon the word has her chance to find the cause of the Emperor's strange behavior. Surely his closest friend could be trusted to get word out to those who could help the Emperor, and save the Centauri Court.

When the guards came for her that night, they told her she had a choice between exile and death. It was then she realized how seriously she had miscalculated.

The transport that waited to take her to exile on Babylon 5 hummed to life and she glanced up. Something was moving on the edge of the launch pad, and she craned her head to catch a glimpse of what she assumed must be Emperor Mollari. Going into retirement, they said, and she was to be his only attendant. Aela could not even begin to count the number of questions the odd arrangement raised. She was no handmaiden or nurse, and certainly a retired Emperor deserved a larger retinue. That is, when Emperors retired at all. She could count on one hand the number of his predecessors that had retired rather than die in office, and those retirements that weren’t mythological were almost certainly forced.

Had Mollari been forced from the throne? And if so, why, and why had he not been killed as was customary? Who would rule in his place? Fear twisted in her gut at the thought of the chaos that pressed against the walls of the palace. It did not take a historian to know that a mob at the gates was a harbinger of many things, few of them good. 

Two servants in Imperial livery appeared, pushing a cart of sorts between them. Baggage? No, the shape was wrong, and as it came into view she saw lying atop it a person wrapped in a white sheet. She pressed her fist to her mouth and bit down on her knuckles to suppress her gasp.

The Emperor was strapped to a gurney, his face drawn and pale as death. Aela lowered her hand and knotted her fingers together over her pack as every instinct called on her to run to his side, or to grab the arm of the nearest guard and call for help. Yet she dared not move or speak. She was a marked woman now. The wrong word may be all the excuse needed to put a blaster to her head.

"Get in." She started as the guard's rough hand tightened around her shoulder, pushing her towards the transport ahead of the gurney. The sun vanished behind her as she stumbled into the darkened cabin, the Emperor was loaded behind her, and the gurney strapped down. The servants turned to leave.

"Wait! You can't just leave him like this. Who's going to take care of him?" Aela exclaimed.

One of the servants paused while closing the door and gave a silent shrug. Aela gaped as he continued drawing the door shut.

"No, stop! He isn't well, you can't just leave him like this!" The door shut and the cabin lights came up. "I don't know what to do!" Engines roared to life beneath them, and her stomach dropped as she felt the ground fall away. There was no door or window to the cockpit to contact the pilot, and her pack flew from her hands as the floor lurched and she toppled against one of the seats.

She scrambled for the security belt, her hands shaking so hard it took three missed attempts before the pieces snapped into place. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to hold down a wave of nausea. Sweat gathered on her lip and she took a harsh breath through her nose as she fought the urge to vomit. _A small ship like this can_ _’_ _t make a jump into hyperspace_ , a corner of her mind prattled inanely, _we_ _’_ _ll have to transfer to a larger ship once we get into orbit_. There would be someone there to take care of him, there had to be.

The room lurched as the cabin straightened. Outside the ship continued it’s vertical ascent, but the passenger cabin rotated to maintain equilibrium. For a brief, blessed moment, the sound of the engines faded and her stomach settled as transport's motion smoothed. Aela took a second, shuddering breath and pressed a trembling hand to her face and forehead to wipe away the sweat. Once she could speak without the fear of losing what little food remained in her stomach, she unbuckled the belt and knelt at the Emperor's side.

"Majesty," Aela said. Her hands hovered in front of her as she studied his drawn features, the dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes. His chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly,but that as the only sign he lived, and after a moment's hesitation she pressed an ear to his chest. He had once made an off-hand remark about his heart problems, but he seemed to regard the issue with some amusement. _It was a valiant attempt, but I'm afraid I am still on target for my appointment_. Aela had nodded and said nothing more. It would be rude to inquire into another's death dream, particularly an Emperor's.

His pulse was steady, if hard to detect through the sheet and the layers of clothing. Not that she would know the sign of trouble if she heard it. She worried her canines against her lower lip. "Your Majesty," she said again, this time louder. She placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him, gently at first, but then with more force. There was no response and she felt a bit foolish. If the transport rattling its way through takeoff had not awakened him then her prodding certainly wouldn't.

She settled back onto her knees and placed her hands in her lap. After a moment her shoulders fell and her body bowed in on itself, her first concession to exhaustion since the guards had shown up at her door the night before. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, and even the fear had become a dull throb, lingering at the back of her mind like the pain of an old wound.

"It seems a very long way from the library, does it not, your Majesty?" she murmured. The Emperor did not stir and Aela returned to her seat. After a moment she stretched full out and closed her eyes, hoping to grab at least a few hours sleep before the next leg of their exile began.

* * *

There was no help waiting for them at the transfer point. The gurney was unloaded without ceremony and another guard prodded Aela to follow, the gun at his hip a silent threat against further protest. _Did they not know who he was?_ The thought seemed too preposterous to be believed. The Emperor was the Emperor, retired or not, and yet a common citizen might at least expect a medical team in attendance when unconscious and clearly in distress. Instead the pattern of their departure from Centauri Prime was repeated. A pair of men, not even servants but rather the orbital station's dockworkers, transferred the Emperor to the liner that would bring them to Babylon 5. Not a word was spoken and the glare she received when she opened her mouth for a renewed attempt at pleading for medical aid was so sharp she shut her mouth with an audible click. 

For a brief, terrifying moment she considered the possibility that she and the Emperor would be left to die in the ship's baggage hold. They had been given no food, and the journey to Babylon 5 was several days long even with hyperspace travel. She would not starve to death in that time, but she would be severely dehydrated, and the Emperor may very well die from the strain while in his weakened state.

She nearly wept with relief as the guards led them up the gangplank to a row of cabins. An unremarkable blue rug lined the floors and each cabin held a pair of bunked beds and a basic set of facilities. _A Human ship_ , she realized at the sight of the decor.

They stopped at the last cabin in the hallway. A door beyond it led to the crew quarters, and the guard that had escorted them turned to face her while the dockworkers loaded the Emperor into the lower bunk. "The crew has been alerted that you are both to be quarantined. Food and water will be brought to you, and once en route there will be an attendant to see to his needs. You are not to speak with the staff or the passengers, and an agent will remain on the ship to ensure you disembark on Babylon 5. You have been given sanctuary while on the station, but any attempt to return to Centauri space will be considered a breach of your exile and punished accordingly. Do you understand?" said the guard.

She fought to suppress the small, giddy smile of relief that tugged at the corner of her mouth. She could not find it within herself to balk at the harsh terms. The  Emperor would receive the care he needed, and the fact they had made it this far meant they might survive long enough to reach the location of their exile. Death still hung above them, as there would be few questions asked if a pair of quarantined passengers were to pass away unexpectedly, but at least they had made it this far. The guard's brow lowered and she realized she had not responded, and the tiny smile had grown to a manic grin. She coughed and forced her expression to neutrality. "I understand. But..." The glare returned but she pressed on. "Don't you know who he is?"

The guard gave her a disdainful look. "Why should I? You are both dead to the Centauri Republic, and I could not care less to know the names of a pair of traitors to the Imperial Court." He turned and without a word vanished down the hallway. The dockworkers finished moving the Emperor, strapped the empty gurney into a corner and departed. There was no one in the hallway, but Aela ducked into the cabin nonetheless as the door shut behind her. Somewhere, the agent sent to monitor their passage waited and watched. The danger was not yet passed.

In addition to the stacked beds and the facilities, the room held a small desk with a lamp and a comm screen. The screen was dark, and remained so despite her attempt to turn it on. Disabled. Even the most basic entertainment and recording options had been turned off. She fell heavily into the chair, remembering to fasten herself down in preparation for zero gravity. After a moment, she buried her face in her hands.

 _A pair of traitors..._ Suddenly it all made sense. The people pressed against the gates of the palace, the unspoken threats, the silence. Somehow, in the few hours after she gave Ambassador Cotto the crumpled note, there had been a coup d’état. But how? Had _drakh_ been a keyword, a sign to attack? What if her involvement was entirely coincidental? But no, that made little sense. She was only an archivist, inconsequential in the grander scheme of Court politics. The note must be related, perhaps it had been taken as a sign that the conspiracy had been discovered, and the guilty parties must act with speed.

But why allow her to live? Why not kill Emperor Mollari as well, as so many palace coups had ended in the past? Why smuggle them into exile on Babylon 5, why tell her that the Emperor was going into retirement and why tell her that billions would die if she ever again spoke the word _drakh_?

Too many questions, and she had answers to none. She looked to her companion, unchanged since he had been placed on the bed. Perhaps the Emperor would have the answers when he awoke. If he awoke.

She must have dozed again, because when she came to, she could hear the sound of people filing into their cabins, the low mutter of voices and stomping feet audible despite the thick walls of the cabin. This time there was no lurch as the ship departed, but it was an older model and once off the orbital station Aela had to brace herself against the loss of gravity. Minbari artificial gravity technology was still only to be found on the newest Human models, though Centauri had had their own capabilities based on different principles for quite some time.

An hour into the flight there was a knock at the door and an attendant wearing a ventilation mask and scrubs stepped into the room. It was a Human woman, and she did not spare Aela even a glance as she moved to the Emperor's side, took a monitoring device from the pocket of her suit and began to examine his vital signs. Aela paid little mind to the proceedings, for though she felt palpable relief at the fact the Emperor was being tended, a much more pressing issue was at hand. She had seen in the brief moment when the door opened that beside each door there was a folder bolted to the wall, and a paper copy of the latest ISN news sat in each one.

The attendant was about to leave, still without speaking to Aela. She had only a second, and she mimed furiously at the door, not daring to speak. The attendant stopped, giving her a strange look and Aela pointed again, miming opening the newspaper. There was a pause, and after a moment the attendant shrugged as if not seeing the harm, and before leaving lifted the ISN report from the door across the way and tossed it back to Aela, who caught it gratefully from where it hovered in the air. The guard had only said she must not speak, he hadn't said anything about reading, or so she hoped.

Any joy dropped away along with the bottom of her stomach when she opened the first page.

**Chaos on Centauri Prime: Emperor Mollari II found dead, Centauri Court accuses Alliance President Sheridan of foul play**

_The Alliance has yet to issue a counter statement in the wake of the shocking accusations surrounding the death of Emperor Mollari II. Riots have been reported across Centauri Prime, and the Centauri people are calling for action against the Alliance, claiming this is the final straw. Centauri tension towards the Alliance have run high since the bombardment that came in response to the raids of 2262, when Regent Virini allegedly authorized attacks on Alliance merchants and transport ships, and the Centauri government was ordered to pay reparations to the afflicted parties. This controversial move ignited public protests in the capital of Centauri Prime, where the damage was considerable and the claim was made that the money was needed to help rebuild. Though President Sheridan and Entil'Zha Delenn have put forth multiple bills to have the reparations reduced or canceled, the Alliance majority, led by the Narn, has consistently rejected each attempt. They have argued that the damage done by the Centauri has not yet been repaid. Now with the death of Mollari, once a member of the Alliance's Advisory Board, many Centauri are calling for a further severing ties, if not an all-out declaration of war. Centauri Prime Minister Durla stated in a press conference, "The Alliance has sought to exert pressure on us from without by draining our resources to pay their unfair and illegal reparations. Now they try to control us from within by removing the one man who stood against their tyrannical rule." When asked if this meant he would declare war on the Alliance, Durla stated, "It is not within my authority to take such a step. Only the Emperor may do so, but Emperor Mollari in his wisdom declared a successor not long before his assassination. Perhaps he sensed the Alliance's imminent treachery, even when we could not. We have failed to protect our beloved leader, but the Alliance can be assured that we will have our revenge." (Story continued on page 4B)_

"Great Maker..." Aela breathed as the paper slipped from nerveless hands and floated weightlessly in front of her. Was this what she had uncovered? Was _drakh_ somehow connected to this coup and the Emperor's banishment? As for the Emperor's heir, who else but the man who succeeded him on Babylon 5, Vir Cotto? A growl of rage grew at the back of throat and she balled her hands into fists. How had she been such a fool? Trusting Ambassador Cotto, a man she had never met?

 _Vir is...a good man, unlike me. I think you would like him,_ the Emperor had said, and there was such a depth of fondness in his eyes she had found herself instantly liking this Vir Cotto. Vir was a favorite topic of his, and she dug her fingernails into her hands as the anger built at the thought of the Emperor waking to the news that the man he considered his son had usurped his position. Perhaps it was better if he never woke, so he never had to face the depths of this betrayal.

She resisted the urge to snatch up the pages of the newspaper and tear them to pieces. Instead she moved stiffly, retrieving each section from the air and placing them in the desk drawer. There was a long flight ahead, and no doubt she would be glad of it before the end.

 

* * *

 

She found herself re-reading the article several times over. The rest of the newspaper could not hold her attention for long before the gnawing worry would return and she would reopen to the page, scanning the lines for some second layer of meaning. She realized that she could not even be certain that Vir Cotto was the new Emperor; her only link to that conclusion was her incarceration so soon after giving him the note. He may be dead, or in as dire straits as she and the Emperor if he had shown the note to the wrong person or spoken the word _drakh_ in the wrong ear. She did not know why this point mattered to her, but the possibility that the fabled Vir Cotto was responsible for Londo's overthrow brought the simmering rage back to full power.

She knew that by over-thinking this, she was only tying herself into futile knots. But she was no Minbari to find tranquility in meditation, and with the Emperor still in his coma there was no other outlet for her fear and confusion. The arrival of the ship's medic the next day was a welcome distraction, and though Aela still did not dare speak to the Human woman, she did take care this time to pay close attention to the medic's ministrations. After the initial checkup, the medic had tended to a set of portable machines hooked up to the Emperor that restored nutrition to his blood stream and saw to other functions. After checking and prepping these, the medic removed a monitoring device from her kit and swiped it over the man, frowning down at the results.

"Strange," the Human woman muttered, and gave the device an experimental shake. She cast a glance over her shoulder at Aela and shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with him. Well, nothing that's showing up on the scanner." Aela pressed her lips together to keep herself from blurting a series of frantic questions. The medic must have seen something of Aela's distress, because she continued. "His vital signs are steady, and there's nothing wrong with his artificial heart. Yes, his nutrition levels were low, and he's not in the best physical condition, but there's nothing here that explains the coma. I'm not that familiar with Centauri laws or customs, but you might want to have the resident telepath on B5 take a look at him."

Aela nodded gratefully as the medic packed her kit. The woman's diagnostic raised as many questions as it answered, but her advice had given Aela a sense of purpose. Once on Babylon 5, she would hire the first non-Centauri telepath she could find and hope whoever it was would be willing to work pro-bono, or at least be willing to wait for payment until Aela could find some temporary employment on the station

The medic departed. Aela waited until the door closed behind her before carefully unbelting herself from the desk chair and drifting to the side of the Emperor's bed. She wasn't sure what she expected when she knelt down by his bedside. His face was still drawn and his breathing shallow. There were deep furrows around his eyes, as if he was flinching away from a threat only he could see. She took his hand and clasped it between her own. They had not been friends, only acquaintances who on rare occasion spared a few hours to relieve the other's solitude. But now, billions of light-years away from Centauri Prime, he was all she had.

She wondered if she should call his name. It was a romantic notion, and as such she immediately dismissed it. The medic had said nothing was wrong with him; whatever had happened might be entirely in his mind. Or it might be a Centauri poison far beyond the woman's basic capabilities. Who could say? Aela replaced the Emperor's hand by his side and pulled herself up to her own bed. Tomorrow they would dock at Babylon 5. There was nothing to do before then but wait.

 

* * *

A Centauri man she could only assume was the agent appeared in the early hours of the morning, long before the ship was set to dock. The halls were empty of life when he arrived, and the door slid open without so much as a knock. Aela started from the bed, wrapping a blanket around herself defensively, her mind clearing in the first rush of shock.

"Who... why are you here?" she said, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

The man flashed a folder at her and raised one hand from the support bar on the wall to place it in the desk drawer. Her breath caught as she saw a flash of the newspaper hidden within the desk, but the agent appeared either not to notice or care, and shut the drawer without a second glance. "These are the details for your exile from Centauri Prime. You are expected to familiarize yourself with them before disembarking. Your companion will be removed to the medlab on Babylon 5 and quarantined there until stabilized. You will find the details of your lodgings and your pension for the first three months there as well. After that you are on your own."

Aela's head spun but she carefully straightened and tried to instill some dignity into her voice when she spoke, "These are unusual conditions for an exile. Am I to learn any more of the charges pressed against me or my...companion?"

"Prime Minister Durla has ordered these arrangements made on behalf of the new Emperor. If I were you I would worry less about his reasons and just be grateful you are both still alive. Others have not been so fortunate," said the agent.

 _But why?_ Aela wanted to ask, but she could not stop herself from asking another question, no matter how foolish it might be with the threat glinting in the agent's eyes. "And might I know the name of our new Emperor?" she said.

"You will find out on your own soon enough," he said. Aela could have snarled in frustration. The man left without another word, and Aela clambered down from the top bunk of the bed and tore open the wrapped folder, returning to the bed to read it's contents.

She had been to Babylon 5 only once before. Back in 2258, before the war, she had left her university on Earth to transfer to her new job in the Centauri Imperial Archives. At the time, Babylon 5 was easiest transfer point between the races, and so she was not completely befuddled when she disembarked from the shuttle. The Emperor had been taken from the room by the resident medical staff the hour before. She glanced at the folder in her hand. A crush of bodies pressed against her, but she still managed to navigate through customs. The identicard enclosed in the agent's folder got her through without comment. A room in the Green Sector waited for them, and the papers listed her as the Emperor's niece, under a different name of course. The names they had been given were unfamiliar, but she would learn it in time. Perhaps when he recovered, if he recovered, she would return to Earth. But all possibilities for her future seemed very far away as Narn, Gaim, Humans, and a host of other races passed her in the halls.

It might have been an illusion, but she felt their eyes as she passed. Centauri traveling to Babylon 5 had become rare since the Emperor broke diplomatic ties with the Alliance. Those who must travel, be it for business or diplomacy, stayed within their tiny enclaves and spoke in hushed voices.

She would have liked nothing more than to pass through the back halls unnoticed, but there was no avoiding the Zocalo at the heart of the station. She kept her back straight and her head held high as she passed, clutching the folder and her pack. Even so, whispers followed her, and words almost out of hearing stirred her attention.

" _Today we look back on the crowning of the new Centauri Emperor..."_

The din of the Zocalo seemed to hush around her, as if the air had been sucked from the room. Slowly, Aela turned to see the television screen hanging over one of the bars.

" _There had been much speculation surrounding the choice of heir by Emperor Mollari II. Who would the mysterious figure be, and what will the choice mean for the future of Centauri Prime and the Alliance?_ "

The feeling of dread welled in the pit of Aela's stomach, turning her limbs to lead. She raised her gaze, and saw for the first time the man who would rule Centauri Prime.

" _Emperor Vir Cotto, the first of his family and former Ambassador to Babylon 5, caused something of a stir when his name was announced. Unlike his predecessor, the ceremony was widely attended, and the bells only tolled only once to commemorate the recently deceased Emperor Mollari._ "

The ISN news anchor rattled on, but Aela could make out her words. All she could hear was a sound like the tide crashing in her ears, the cries of the rioters at the gates like the roar of something collapsing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I probably spent too much time on my OC Aela Cantori in this chapter. I just want to assure any readers who were bothered by this that it was necessary to have a second narrator while Londo is unconscious. Though Aela will continue to feature as a secondary character in the rest of the story, I doubt she will get as much screen time again as she did here. Londo and Vir are, and will continue to be, the stars of the show. In the future, OCs will appear at times to add flavor and move the plot but they will not be stealing the spotlight unless it is absolutely necessary.
> 
> Of course, if you did like her I would love to hear your thoughts! I tried very hard to make a character who felt natural within the Babylon 5 universe, and who could be realistically end up in the circumstances in which we see her here. Also, I apologize for the info dump, but I realized I was writing a lot of this chapter with the assumption that readers had read my standalone fic "While Rome Burns", where Aela was first introduced. However, since I promised at the beginning that I would include within the text any information that was necessary in order to understand the story, I realized I needed to recap some of that fic for the sake of clarity. I apologize if those sections were dull.


	5. Durla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proscription (Latin: proscriptio) is the public identification and official condemnation of enemies of the state.

Durla learned a lesson from each Emperor he served. 

First, that blood means nothing. He learned this lesson from Emperor Turhan, that a fool can be born into even the greatest family. Durla had still been a petty officer within the guard, his lips curling in disdain as he overheard Turhan telling Malachi of his plans to apologize to the Narn.

Second, rank will not protect you. Cartagia made no secret of this lesson. Durla had watched as three of his superior officers and dozens of his fellow guards were executed without trial, some without explanation, most without reason. The lesson took on new meaning when he was elevated to second-in-command, when there was no one left who would risk the position. Let the slow, the stupid, and the lazy revel in safety.  Only the best would survive when the blood began to flow. Of course, he could always fall prey himself, he had no illusions, but rather than frighten him the thought invigorated him.

The third lesson was that there is no value in loyalty. Of this Mollari had been a master, after all he was responsible for the death of one, if not two Emperors he had sworn to serve, and yet still managed to become Emperor himself. Cartagia too had wielded treason accusations as a weapon against his uncle’s closest friends, but these had been half-hearted attempts. Cartagia had never felt true loyalty to any of them. Before long, the mad Emperor ceased his attempts dress up his bloodlust with details like trials or formal accusations.

But Mollari, Mollari had made an art of chaos. At first even Durla could not grasp the pattern behind the man’s seemingly random executions. He could only look on in admiration as nobles that had once stood against Mollari fell in line, leaping at shadows and consumed by fear of offending his erratic definition of loyalty.

The masterstroke was Mollari himself. Cartagia had shown his madness over time, and taken obvious delight in the executions he handed out like macabre boons. But Mollari took no obvious pleasure in the deaths he ordered. The wails of his doomed ministers’ families were echoed in Mollari’s own face, contorted in a masterful facsimile of grief. It was quite the show; Durla could almost believe that Mollari regretted his actions. But the purpose was clear, as the consummate performance only birthed greater fear in the courtiers. Madness they could understand, real conspiracies could be joined or turned in depending on the tides of court politics, but the Emperor pretending to suffer as he dealt death to his most loyal supporters? That struck the terror of uncertainty into their hearts. 

Terror Mollari had done little to exploit. His ministers picked off like errant flies, Mollari could have instituted any policy he chose, could have made himself a god had he been so inclined! Yet he did nothing with the absolute power he had acquired, save for the occasional odd decree. A certain parcel of land set aside here, a new military base built there.  Nonsense, really. Durla had braced himself for sweeping changes that never came. 

The chaos brought by such reforms would have brought opportunity, but when none arises the daring must make their own. Durla found his the night Prime Minister Cholini, a man whom all had thought safe, was found guilty of treason. 

* * *

It was the eve of Prime Minister Cholini’s trial, and the royal court held its collective breath. Cholini’s two wives stood white-lipped, each clutching a hand of the Prime Minister’s only son and heir. The boy could not have been more than twenty, barely past his Ascension. Cholini himself stood straight-backed, head held high before the Emperor’s throne. The lights were white and cast a stark glare across the courtiers that had gathered in the throne room, yet the source of the light behind the canopy that enshrouded the Emperor’s throne and painted Emperor Mollari’s features in a chiaroscuro of light and shadow. His face was visible only when he leaned forward to listen to the defense, and were swallowed again by darkness when he sat back to deliberate.

Even Durla was forced to admit the effect was terrifying. Cholini, the former Minister of Defense, broke into a sweat as the silence stretched. The evidence had been heard, but only the Emperor could pass judgment for the ultimate crime of high treason. The palace, and indeed all of Centauri Prime had been alight with gossip in the wake of the accusation. Even the common voices of dissent, those ministers who spoke in hushed tones at the corner of loud rooms, or the more foolish courtiers who expressed their shock aloud at the gaming tables and opera soirees, could not believe that Cholini of all people could come under suspicion. The man was too canny, they said, to have been caught if he was indeed a conspirator. Even more troubling, there had been not a whisper in the back channels of Court gossip that a coup was in progress, and there were _always_ whispers of a coup in progress, regardless of what the truth might be. 

 _I overheard Vocateur Tensus say there is no evidence against Cholini_ , one of Durla’s guards had whispered in his ear on the eve of the final trial. No one paid attention to a guard in the room; they were invisible to the high lords and ladies, a constant presence. To not speak in front of the Imperial guard would be to not speak at all. _He believes this has been a gambit aimed at reining in the Prime Minister, who had begun to question some of the Emperor’s decisions. Mollari will show Cholini his place, and then dismiss the charges. It is the only outcome. The Emperor will appear magnanimous and the Prime Minister will fall in line._ Durla had seen no need to correct his informant. It was not the _only_ outcome. He dismissed the man with a salute and settled back to consider the information, pressing a gloved hand to his mouth as he thought.  The Vocateur was the leader of Cholini’s defense, a perilous position when the Emperor’s will in the matter was unclear. Tensus may be shielded by his daughter Aria’s marriage to the Maray heir, arranged as it was after a fosterage with House Mollari. Nonetheless, Durla made a mental note that should Cholini fall, House Tensus may not be far behind.

A lack of evidence would not have been a problem for Cartagia, but his treason trials had tended towards quick, casual affairs that ended in a blood splatter on the wall and the uproarious laughter of his terrified courtiers. Legality had gone unobserved and those who cried for a fair trial could continue their futile plea all the way to the headsman’s block. Yet the knife cut both ways, and all those cases had been overturned as soon as soon as Cartagia’s body was cold. Fortunes were restored to the disgraced family; their names dusted off and returned their places of honor in the Court roster. Without a proper trial there could be no long-term consequences. The Centauri Court had survived mad men in the past in this way; it was practically tradition. 

Not so with Mollari. A formal treason trial meant the family would be disgraced and stripped of titles and property. Their head of House would be executed and the family banished from Court, if not from Centauri Prime. It would take the careful planning of decades for a former great House to remove the stain of treason, and even centuries could not remove the memory. A lesser House may fall into debt then slavery, and never recover. 

This was no shadow trial, hidden in back rooms and presided over by secret juries. Cholini had every right to sweat as he awaited his verdict, and the Court stank of fear. If the Prime Minister could fall, then no force in the universe could save one of the lesser nobles should the eye of the Emperor turn to them.

“Guilty,” Mollari pronounced, and leaned back into the inky darkness that engulfed the throne. He placed a hand to his forehead as if exhausted, his expression grim as the death that now awaited Cholini.

It was as if a silent explosion had been detonated in the court. Gasps rippled like a shockwave through the rows of courtiers. A woman near the back gave a muffled shriek and was immediately hushed by her husband. Even Durla rocked back on his heels. 

Cholini’s two wives were silent. Some shocks were simply too great to express. The younger had gone wide-eyed, her face draining of blood, while the elder wife grasped her son by the shoulders, pulling him against her chest. She whispered frantically in his ear but the boy was shaking his head violently. He wrenched himself free of her grip, and strode forward. Durla’s guards stepped down from where they flanked the Emperor on the dais, aiming their weapons at the boy, who had gone white-faced and shook with fury.

“How dare you? My father is innocent!” the boy shouted. 

“Lady Cholini, control your son,” said Mollari. He sounded weary, resigned. Hardly the mood one would expect from a man who had just ruined the Prime Minister and his House without evidence. “There is no need to make matters worse than they already are.”

“Rafel, go to your mother. The Emperor has spoken,” said Cholini without turning to look at his son. His throat worked as if fighting back tears, or bile, but his façade was otherwise without flaw.

“This trial has been a _farce_.” Rafel turned to face the throne, pointing an accusing finger at Mollari. “My father was serving Emperor Turhan with distinction when you were gambling away your wife’s fortune on Babylon 5. A traitor, _him_? Why don’t you tell us more of Turhan’s last words, or Cartagia’s, so that we may be the judge of what a traitor looks like?” Lady Cholini gave a low moan of fear and sank to her knees. The younger wife reached out her hand as if to draw Rafel back, but let it fall to her side, her eyes wide as if she were watching the boy tumbling down from a great height.

“The boy is young,” murmured the Emperor, half to himself. His head was tilted to the side, as if talking to someone at his right shoulder, though there was no one there. “And he has suffered a terrible shock.” He looked back to the crowd, his eyes wandering over them before he said in a louder voice, “Have the former Prime Minister’s son and wives escorted to their quarters. We will not speak of this matter again.” 

The guards holstered their weapons and the first moved to grab Rafel by the arm, while the second gestured for the two ladies to follow him. But Rafel wrenched himself free and took another step towards the throne, his eyes burning as he glared up at the Emperor.

“Who wants my father dead, Mollari? What _friend_ are you appeasing with the sacrifice of House Cholini?”

“Rafel!” the boy’s mother wailed from where she had collapsed on the floor, her arms outstretched towards her son.

 “There is no reason for the Emperor to persecute us in this manner. In all his years my father has not uttered a single disloyal word against the Emperor, whoever he may be, and you know it!” The boy turned to face the crowd, his posture as straight and unyielding as a blade. “Can none of you see? My father is not the enemy here. There is another force at work, one darker and more insidious than any we have faced. It crouches in the shadows, controlling our policies, turning us against one another, using our Emperor as its puppet! They will not be satisfied with the fall of House Cholini, and they will not ignore you if you sit by, cowering behind your silence. They will come for your lands next, your titles, your husbands, your fathers, your children! And why? Because like him you will begin to ask questions, you will wonder why, why has reconstruction of the capital has been halted, why we have not sent an envoy to make peace with the Alliance? No, this madness must stop here and now!” Rafel turned back to the Emperor. “Is that not true, _your Majesty_? Tell us, who is pulling your strings? What have they offered you in exchange for our blood? What shadows are they hiding in?”

“ _Enough!_ ”

The crowd looked as one to stare at their Emperor. He had risen to his feet, a terrible change coming over his body, as if he were possessed. In all his years, Durla had never seen such implacable rage in a man’s expression. His pale eyes were like chips of ice as he stared down at Rafel Cholini, and the boy shrank back despite his brave words a moment before. 

“It seems I have made an error in judgment,” said Emperor Mollari. “I had thought the _former_ Prime Minister would be wise enough not to involve his family in his crimes, it seems I was wrong.” He closed his eyes, his brow crinkling as he took a deep breath. His shoulders fell as he opened them again and looked at the boy, his brow creasing with terrible grief. “It is now clear that this conspiracy has spread before I could put a stop it.”

“Your Majesty,” said Cholini, addressing the Emperor directly for the first time since the trial began. “Whatever my crimes may be I assure you that my son is innocent. I would never involve him in such a conspiracy, never put him at risk.” The man stopped, overwhelmed by emotion, and was only able to whisper the last words. “He is my only son, my heir. Please, your Majesty, I beg you. Show mercy.”

Mollari stared at his former Prime Minister, his lips parted as if to do just that. Then his face twisted and he turned, resuming his seat on the throne, and leaned back into the shadows. “I can’t,” his voice broke on the syllables, and ever word was slow as if dragged from him. “His guilt is obvious, whatever you might say. He has slandered the name of the Emperor and shown intent to cause a mass uprising. Such behavior must not be tolerated.” Mollari straightened. “House Cholini is no more. Both son and heir will be put to death. Any who speaks the name of their House will be held indefinitely on suspicion of conspiracy to overthrow the government. Those affiliated with the House are banished from Centauri territory immediately and without aid. For now there will be an amnesty for all their past associates and allies, but such amnesty is forfeit should it be discovered that they are offering aid or comfort.”

Mollari looked out to the stricken faces of the crowd. Cholini’s youngest wife swayed and was caught by the guard as she fainted. The elder wife’s arms had dropped to her side and she looked as one whose soul had died, though the body did not yet know it. The boy did not cry out at the sentence, in that at least he showed some dignity. He did not resist as he was dragged to his father’s side and handcuffed. Perhaps because he saw the crowd as he was taken, saw their wide eyes and closed lips, and knew that they had agreed with all he said. Agreed, but remained silent as one of the oldest Houses of the Republic fell. “You are all dismissed,” said Mollari.

The crowd of courtiers glanced between one another, then rose as one as Emperor Mollari stood, and left the room through the back door behind the throne. They did not leave immediately. Some stared into the distance, as if caught in a web of their own fear, others talked among themselves in hushed tones. Somewhere a man gave a high, hysterical laugh. Durla ducked out before the crowd could rouse itself, making a swift line towards the Emperor’s quarters. 

A single guard stood at attention outside the Emperor’s chamber. Durla could tell from the man’s flustered expression that Mollari must have stormed past him only moments before, and that the additional guards that were usually dispatched to the room when the Emperor was within had not yet arrived. Durla returned the guard’s salute when he caught sight of him. 

“At ease,” said Durla. “I will be taking over the protection of the Emperor this evening. You are relieved.”

“Yes, sir,” said the guard. “Should I request a second for you?”

“No, and call off any who are on the way. I have made special provisions for the Emperor’s safety,” said Durla. He gave a half-smile and clapped the other man on the shoulder. “There are difficult times ahead of us, and I cannot be sure who I can trust, even amongst my own men. Tell no one of this, and you can be assured that I will remember you favorably during my investigation into the loyalty of your fellow officers.” The man gulped, unsure what to make of Durla’s words or his smile. He obeyed nonetheless, taking off in the direction of the barracks at a quick clip. Durla fell into position beside the door.

He did not have to wait long before he was rewarded by a crash from within the room, which sounded like a vase had been thrown against the wall.

“…What you have created is a catastrophe!” Emperor Mollari bellowed from beyond the door. “How can you expect me to hide you when you bring one of the greatest Houses of the Republic crashing down around our ears? 

Durla stilled his breathing to listen but could not make out the voice of whomever the Emperor was speaking to.

“Necessary? It was an act of supreme arrogance and stupidity! No one would have paid the boy a moment’s thought, now they will all wonder if there was any truth to what he said! Had you let him live we might have discredited him, now there is no way to hold back the tide of speculation.” 

 _A telepath_? Durla wondered, _Or is he speaking over a private line_? The other party’s silence was hardly a problem though, as Mollari was loud enough for both.

“None of your…none of your _concern_?” The Emperor sputtered in outrage. “I cannot go about executing every minister or chambermaid that happens on your secret. Nor can I be expected to cover for your incompetence with accusations of treason every time one of you is seen! I told you that there were lesser charges that could have been used, a formal trial like that was the height of foolishness. Every eye on Centauri Prime will now be trained on the scandal; every House wondering what conspiracy could have reached all the way to the Prime Minister.  You could have not gathered more attention to the event if you had trumpeted it through the streets!”

“ _It sent a message_.” Durla jerked back at the sound of a voice like the rustle of parchment.

“A message, yes, a message that will end with a mob at the gates! From now on you must give me the chance to handle these matters before they turn into disasters, as all of you are clearly incompetent. For your sakes, I hope you are better at hiding yourselves than you are at handling public relations. Gods know you couldn’t be any worse!” There was a pause, and Durla moved away from the door at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Out. I will need to appoint a new Prime Minister, and soon. The paperwork alone will be staggering, that is if I can find anyone who will take the job. I hope you are satisfied,” Mollari said scathingly. The door opened and the Emperor strode past him. Durla snapped to attention but the Emperor did not spare him a glance as he tore down the hallway. 

Durla waited until Mollari was well out of sight before ducking into the Imperial chambers and closing the door behind him. The room was dark, and empty as far as he could tell. His eyes adjusted after a moment, and he could make out the faint outline of the bed at the far end of the room, what little light that came from the crack beneath the door reflecting off the brilliant white and gold of the walls.

Durla spoke to the empty air. “Mollari is right, you know. The boy’s death will cause an uproar, and the people will begin to ask questions.” Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he felt a stirring in the air, and the hair at the back his neck prickled with a feeling he had come to identify as eyes, ears, and possibly weapons being trained on him. “You have a secret you want to protect. I believe I can help you.”

Silence. For all he knew, Mollari’s mysterious visitor was long gone and he was speaking to an empty room. He waited as the minutes ticked by, and finally turned to leave.

“ _And why should we not simply kill you_?” 

Durla froze as the voice returned, a hoarse whisper that sent chills across his skin as if he had been plunged into icy water. He ran his tongue over lips gone suddenly dry. “Because you need allies. Whatever you have offered to Mollari, he is but one man and he cannot hold back the tide on his own. You need someone who can manage the public opinion, someone who is not the Emperor,” he paused. “At least, not yet.” 

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he detected amusement in the voice when it spoke again, “ _And is that what you want in exchange for your help?_ ”

“Everyone knows that Mollari had allies in achieving the throne. The man was nothing when he was appointed to Babylon 5, and in less than a decade he became Emperor. Such a feat is impossible without powerful friends. I am guessing that you are those friends,” said Durla. “But I do not expect something for nothing. Give me the tools I need, and I promise to remove whichever enemies you see fit, all without a word from the people.”

“ _And what tools are those_?”

Durla straightened and stared into the heart of the darkness. He could almost imagine he saw a figure standing there, one shadow darker than the others. “The office of Prime Minister. Give me this, and you will have your silence. If my performance is satisfactory, we will discuss future possibilities.” His veins burned with adrenaline but he kept an iron grip on his voice and expression. “It is clear that Mollari tires of your partnership. Perhaps with time you will come to see the value of a new ally, one more sympathetic to your needs.”

“ _The politics of your world means little to us_ ,” said the voice. “ _You will have your position._ ”

“And how am I to contact you?” said Durla.                           

“ _You won’t. We will speak again once your task is complete._ ” Durla gave a start as something brushed passed him, and he felt the chill of prey that had felt a predator pass by its hiding place. The room went silent save for the sound of his own breathing.

* * *

Mollari summoned him to a private audience the next day. The room was devoid of guards or any other courtiers, and it seemed especially large and empty in the absence of Cholini’s trial. The former Prime Minister and his son had been executed without fanfare that morning, and already Durla’s informants brought him news of angry muttering in the streets. Durla had not attended. It seemed in poor taste to lurk at the execution of one’s rival, especially when one had not orchestrated the event.

Mollari was standing at the window when Durla entered, looking out to the execution grounds that had been set up before the palace. The polished skull of Cartagia’s advisor, the Human known as Morden, had once decorated one of the pikes, until Mollari had inexplicably removed it not long after his coronation. Now the pikes held the head of Cholini and his son. Mollari’s gaze did not waver as he looked down at the gruesome display, his eyes intent, as if trying to burn the image into his mind.

At the sound of Durla’s approach, Mollari glanced back and flipped the curtain closed with a sharp flick of the wrist. Though the man wore the traditional Imperial white, there was air of repressed rage that enfolded him like a cloak of shadows.

“Ah, Captain Durla,” said Mollari, his face twisting in an instant to jovial mask. He stepped away from the window, turning his back to it, but kept his hands clasped behind him rather than offering them as would have been appropriate. Durla saluted but also kept his arms to his side. “I see you have finally come to grace me with your presence, yes? I hope I am not keeping you from anything important.”

“The Emperor is, as ever, my first priority, your Majesty,” said Durla.

“Is he?” said Mollari, raising his eyebrows and giving a smile that might have been affable if not for the flash of teeth. “Then I am to understand that it was out of the _noblest_ of intentions that you offered yourself as a candidate for Prime Minister, hmm? That you could not bear the thought that I might be deprived of the office for even a day?”

“As you say, your Majesty,” said Durla with a nod.

“How generous. And I’m sure self interest had nothing to do with it.” Mollari clapped a hand on Durla’s shoulder and, still smiling, leaned in to hiss, “You are playing a dangerous game, Captain. These _friends_ of yours are nothing of the sort, and it’s for your sake not mine that I advise you withdraw your offer. As you know, there are dozens of ministers more qualified for the position, something your newfound friends could never understand.” 

“And if I do not?” Durla said coolly.

“Then I imagine there will be one of two outcomes. Either you die and your head decorates one of those pikes,” said Mollari, nodding towards the window. “Or you die and they never find the body.” 

“Are you quite finished, Majesty?” said Durla. He straightened and pushed the Emperor’s hand away dismissively. “Or should I call you Londo? We will be working closely together, it seems appropriate that we become familiar.”

“It is still Emperor Mollari, and this matter is not settled until I say it is,” said Mollari. Durla had several inches of height on Mollari, but the advantage had not mattered until he realized what the Emperor was trying to hide. He drew himself taller and looked down on what was ostensibly the most powerful man on Centauri Prime.

“I think you will find it is,” said Durla. “You associates have already made the matter clear, otherwise we would not be having this conversation and you would not be so transparently attempting to have me step down. The truth of the matter is that the decision lies with you associates, and is quite beyond your control. So the fact remains, Londo, that I will be your new Prime Minister.” Durla’s smile widened and grew sharp. “Surely you did not think you could have sole access to your allies for so long? You have not been good to them lately. They have needs they want met, and in exchange they will give me what they gave you.” Mollari’s lips had been curled in a sneer of anger, but at Durla’s words a change came over his expression, twisting it with fear unconcealed by any politician’s mask.

Mollari opened his mouth then closed it, as if a stronger will than his own had slammed it shut. “You are a fool,” Londo said in a strangled whisper, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “They are not…” Mollari stopped, his lips sealing together. For a moment, Durla thought he saw something frantic in Mollari’s eyes. Clearly the man thought better of what he was going to say and went silent. Perhaps Mollari’s allies had listening devices planted in the room, a detail that Durla must remember once he assumed office.

“I understand your reluctance, Majesty,” Durla said, resuming an air of formality. “Think of this not as a competition, but rather as gaining a new partner. Between the two of us, and with the help of your associates, we will have the power to bring Centauri Prime into a new era.” Mollari watched silently as Durla extended his arms. “Let us start again. In celebration of our new partnership, I offer you the hands of friendship.”

Londo’s eyes flickered from Durla’s face to his hands. Then without a word he stormed away. Durla’s hands fell to his side and allowed himself a faint smile. He had feared he would need to operate on Mollari’s good side, but it was clear now that Mollari’s allies had made their choice, and they had chosen Durla regardless of Mollari’s good will or consent. His position was secure, so long as he did not fail them.

And he would not fail.

* * *

 

Evidence of Cholini’s betrayal was released to the public the next day. Images, call logs, and documents detailing clandestine meetings and communications with the Alliance proved beyond a shadow of a doubt the late Prime Minister’s intentions to sell out Centauri Prime to the Alliance. In exchange, he had hoped to become Emperor himself.

“Prime Minister Durla carries my trust as well as my authority in this investigation,” Mollari announced at Durla’s inauguration before the Centaurum. The room was circular and lined with an ascending ring of seats, packed with the most powerful men on the planet. At the center stage was the Emperor’s seat, less ornate than the throne and modeled after an ancient camp seat in memory of when the Emperor had been the Centauri people’s lead general. Mollari sat upon it now, glowing like a beacon in Imperial white under the bright lights. “I can think of no more trustworthy man for this role and as such have endowed him with,” Londo’s lips twisted around the word, “ _emergency_ powers until the crisis is resolved.”

Durla had to hand it to his new allies, for the Emperor had accepted the prepared speech without a word of protest. Only the way his fingers clamped around the heavy paper, as if he longed to crush it in his grasp, gave a hint of his view on the matter. The Emperor’s gaze swept the room as he spoke, settling for only a second longer on Durla. He offered a small, ironic smile, a mere quirk of the lips and was rewarded by the furrowing of Londo’s brow, quickly smoothed as he continued with the speech.

As Mollari droned on, Durla mentally surveyed the materials before him with the pleasure of a sculptor given his choice of prepared stone from the finest quarries. In particular, the terror Mollari’s erratic executions had created amongst the nobility and the outrage kindled amongst the populace at the inexplicable halting of the reconstruction, would be the cornerstones upon which he built a new Republic. The capital was a tinderbox waiting for a spark, and only a master craftsman could turn that fire from an unruly explosion to a controlled detonation that propelled Centauri Prime forward along the proper path. 

It was time to begin his work.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Durla said smoothly as Mollari came to the end of the speech. He rose from his seat and joined Mollari at the right hand of the throne. The Emperor regarded him with suspicion, but made no move to stop Durla, even though he could see the desire to do so in the crease between Mollari’s brows and the twitch of a frown at the corner of his lips. Durla inclined his head in mock respect and was rewarded by a flicker of anger in Mollari’s cold eyes. Helpless anger, Durla now knew. He turned back towards the crowd, his own speech perfectly memorized.

“I speak to you all for the first time as your Prime Minister. I do so with a heavy heart, in the wake of a tragedy that has rocked our great Republic to its core. I too felt the terrible shock and grief that one of our greatest men would be so driven by personal ambition and greed that he would sell himself and our people to our greatest enemies. I am speaking, of course, of the Alliance. They who burnt our cities, bombarded our capital, and left our people in ruin. The thought alone sickens me, as I’m sure it does all of you. The Emperor has done his utmost to root out those who would seek to harm our Republic from within, but he is only one man, even if he is a great one. And we have not served him well, doubting his wisdom and calling into question his efforts to protect us.”

“It is not the Emperor’s fault that we find ourselves in a position of impotence, nor is it because of the enemy that branded us with illegal reparations. Let the Alliance attempt to break us, to grind us into the dust with their ships and their blackmail. The Centauri will not be cowed!” Durla suppressed a smile as a whisper went up from the audience, followed by a roar as the Centaurum as one applauded. He allowed the cacophony to die before continuing. “For if we do fall, it will not be because of off-worlders. They cannot break our backs, or our spirits. No, it is from within that we must fear our ruin, from the best of us, the most powerful of us.”

He drew a data crystal from the inner pocket of his embroidered coat and held it up to the light. The lords of the Centaurum craned forward in their seats, as if to see into the crystal’s heart and draw out its secrets. 

“I have on this data crystal the names of twenty lords from the greatest Houses, a list known to the Emperor, as being members of a conspiracy to undermine the government. It is the most abominable of all crimes: high treason. I will release the names one by one as we track down the full network of their connections. No doubt that list will grow, but we will leave no stone unturned in our pursuit. We will destroy, root and branch, those who have sought to expose us to the enemy. The first name will be posted tomorrow on the door of the Centaurum, and another every day until this cancer is wiped out.”

It was as if lightning had struck the Centaurum as the august company turned to look at one another in shock. Clusters formed before Durla’s eyes, House alliances materializing along maps of blood and trust, suspicion blooming along the cracks. Who would be targeted first, they wondered, and what Houses would drag down others with them? The allies of Cholini, already in disarray, sat in the middle of an ever-shrinking island amidst the chaos, as other Houses withdrew into their own packs. Durla allowed himself a small smile and did not mind that there had been no customary applause at the end of his speech. He did not need their recognition after all, only their fear. He turned to leave the stage only to feel a hand close around his wrist. Durla glanced at it with mild interest and raised his eyes to Emperor Mollari, gone white with rage.

“And how many more names can I expect before this over, hmm?” Londo snarled under his breath.

“All that I can remember,” Durla said. “And as for those who escape my memory, there will be time for them later.” 

“And who gave you the right?” Mollari growled.

“You did, your Majesty, when you displeased your allies. I’m afraid I must go. There is a great deal of work ahead,” a simple flex of muscle and twist of his wrist freed his hand from Mollari’s grasp and as he dismounted the dais he allowed himself a surge of pleasure at the memory of the of fear that had swept Mollari’s face.

He had barely left the room when the first lord approached him, the head of House Caudo. The man’s cheeks were red from the effort of catching up to Durla, and his round face poured sweat. “Prime Minister Durla!” Caudo puffed as he drew alongside. The man pulled a data crystal from his inner pocket and pressed it into Durla’s hand. “I believe you will find what information House Caudo can provide on that. Terrible business it is, truly terrible. If there is anything we can do to help, we are at your service.”

Durla accepted the data crystal, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat. “You have my thanks, Lord Caudo. I’m sure this information will be most valuable in our investigation, once we have verified its authenticity. One cannot be too careful in these trying times."

Caudo’s face went from red to white and he made a convulsive grab for the data crystal just as Durla withdrew his hand from his pocket. Caudo pulled back and composed himself, but the man ran an empire of spoo ranches and had no courtier’s mastery of his expressions. “I, yes, I’m sure it will be Prime Minister,” Caudo said with a nervous smile. “I hope this gesture will be remembered, even if some information is, unfortunately, only hearsay.”

“Even hearsay can provide the clues that crack the most difficult cases. Your diligence will be remembered,” Durla said. He gave the man a small, courteous smile but something about it unsettled Caudo, who gulped visibly, bowed far too deep for their difference in rank, and fled.

Caudo was only the first, but others followed, with more tact and grace than the first fool. Secrets jealously horded by the Great Houses for generations were turned over to a man who not ten years ago would have not have warranted a second glance. Durla watched his empire of information grow by leaps and bounds in the space of a few hours, and the next day he placed the first name on the door of the Centaurum.

* * *

 

Fear is a fickle creature, but Durla found he had a natural talent for it. The key lay in keeping it to a low simmer, for like the dumb beasts of the field a frightened populace will stampede as one if that fear were to boil over. Yet with each House climbing over the other to bring him information on their enemies, and before long their friends as well, there was no center around which to build a resistance. The Houses of the ministers loyal to Mollari fell first. Turis, Vitari and even canny Durano collapsing like dominos. It was only right that their fortunes be used to reconstruct the Republic they had sought to destroy, but with so much damage it was nearly impossible to track where the money went. Durla was not so stupid as to channel it all into his own pockets, he had the throne to look forward to after all, but the favors of his informants amongst the other Great Houses were not cheap and the ever-expanding rank of the court guard, critical to national security, was a necessary if astronomic expense.

Each day he took his place at the right hand of the Emperor as Mollari saw to the legions of petitioners. Each day the Emperor’s glares grew more baleful, but Mollari never uttered a word against him and accepted the provided speeches and read them without comment or complaint. Yet Durla could see Mollari shrinking with each execution, his expression growing more haggard with every pronouncement of “guilty” he was ordered to read to the court.

It was nearly the anniversary of Durla’s first year in office when Mollari cornered him. The man was clearly drunk, and his gaze swam slightly when he seized Durla’s wrist as he came to deposit the next day’s speeches on the Emperor’s desk. A bottle of brivari sat empty on the polished surface, and there was no glass in sight. Mollari must have drunk directly from the bottle and at great speed. Certainly the man did not look well, his skin was clammy and the sticky alcohol still colored his lips and stained the front of his Imperial white coat with red droplets.

“You and I are going to have a little chat, my dear minister,” Mollari said, slurring over the consonants with his pompous northern accent.

Durla dropped the papers so they fluttered in disarray onto the desk. Mollari’s gaze did not follow them as Durla had hoped, untrained civilians were much easier to distract and Mollari’s days as a war hero were decades past. He sighed internally, and twisted to pull his wrist free, only to feel something prod his side.

“Your men really should be more careful with these,” Londo said. Light glinted along the barrel of a guard’s standard issue PPG, the very ones Durla had ordered that year for concealed carry.

“And what is it you wished to speak about, your Majesty?” Durla said carefully. “Shooting your Prime Minister doesn’t seem your style. You usually put them on trial first.”

“You’d be surprised at what sort of thing becomes ‘my style’ given the incentive and enough to drink,” Mollari said pleasantly. Durla shifted, changing his stance under the guise of discomfort for the awkward angle, half hunched over Mollari’s desk with his wrist caught in Londo’s hand and a gun buried in his side. “Ah, ah, stay still. You will notice I have not killed you yet. How strange, hmm? But as you say, your death would cause unfortunate questions, and as much as it would delight me personally, I simply do not have the time to deal with those at the moment. That being said, it would be equally unfortunate if my hand were to slip. A drunken accident, I’m afraid, terribly sad, the Emperor is quite mad you know. So, for now I will talk and you will listen and perhaps both of us will walk out that door. Do we have an agreement?”

Durla nodded. There was no guarantee that he could strike Mollari before the man could pull the trigger. His best bet was to simply wait until the alcohol caused the Emperor to slip, and then disarm him. At least they seemed to be in mutual agreement that it was too early to kill one another outright.

Londo settled back into his seat, dragging Durla closer and digging the gun more painfully into his ribs. “Contrary to appearances, minister, I can understand many things. For example, I understand why a low-ranking man such as you might make a deal with allies he cannot see, yes? Powerful allies, who smooth his way to the throne? I have seen your type before, Durla. I can show you their graves if you are curious, though I must say it will be a bit hard to find one of them as the pieces are quite… scattered. I did not arrive at the throne because I am a _nice_ man. Now, you will answer my questions quickly, and without any dramatics, are we clear? Good. What I do not understand is this: how someone like you, a nobody with no House to speak of, can have so many enemies that you require the office of Prime Minister to rid yourself of them all. A colorful past, perhaps?”

Durla did not bristle at the ‘nobody’ comment because it was in fact true, and he had learned long ago not to let his family’s lack of rank function as a weapon against him. But he made no effort to hide the sardonic arch of his eyebrow at Mollari’s question. “Your Majesty, after all these years I should think someone as _wise_ as you would see the pattern. After all, you are a master of the craft yourself.”

“Humor me then,” said Mollari with a flash of canines.

“Because they are traitors, of course.” 

Mollari’s grip tightened spasmodically, his pleasant smile took on a plastic quality but did not fade. “Do you take me for a… there was no link between any of them, not a scrap.”

“Precisely.”

“This is not the time to play games, minister, my patience is a bit thin on the ground these days,” Mollari said, and already a bit of the slurring had gone from his voice. He was recovering from the bottle at a remarkable rate, and at the sight of his urgency Durla deliberately slowed his speech.

“You know, I once thought you a master in this, your Majesty, truly I did. I thought you were adept at covering your tracks with chaos. Killing your own closest allies like that? No one could understand why, and what they could not understand they feared. But there was a pattern, wasn’t there? They came too close to your other allies, the ones you’ve so selfishly kept to yourself. Sooner or later, any who discovered even the smallest hint of their presence was killed, before they could share that information. Durano, you remember him, your old Minister of Intelligence, once had a lovely phrase: the key to hiding something lies in entropy, not obscurity. Hidden information can be uncovered, and the care we put into concealing it provides its own clue. But leave information out in the open, amongst many false leads, and it becomes impossible to discover where the true value lies. I only did what you could not, Mollari. I hid your pattern in plain sight.”

“In chaos and slaughter,” Londo said, his voice hollow. “You’re destroying the Great Houses, their families, the bedrock of our Republic, just to hide their tracks?”

“That is mere speculation on one of many possible explanations, your Majesty. As you should know, the official truth is that they were guilty of treason. And I do not believe it is a lie, if their deaths can serve our return to glory.”

“Glory?” Mollari spat. “That is the old offer but it’s not enough, not for someone like you. What else was it, Durla? What price could possibly be worth leaving Centauri Prime in ashes?” 

“You misunderstand, Majesty, the proscriptions will continue so that Centauri Prime may survive. I have no wish to burn our people; I am trying to save them. Nor would I seek to replace you prematurely. I simply assumed that my services in the upcoming years would make me a prime candidate, what with your own lack of heirs.”

“I’m afraid I have other plans, and you will be heir over my dead body, ” said Mollari. 

“That is rather the point, Majesty.”

Londo gave a snort of amusement, but it seemed rather that he was laughing at a private joke, and for a moment his face cleared with something like relief, as if he was contemplating a bit of information that had escaped Durla’s grasp. Durla filed the thought away for later, when he had time to look into the identity of this heir Mollari was grooming for office.

“So there is another part of your deal. Surely you would not allow them burn the planet you intend to rule?” Mollari said.

 “I’m not sure I follow your meaning,” Durla said. Mollari prodded him again with the gun, looking annoyed and just a little frantic. The alcohol was burning faster, and fifteen minutes in with only one bottle, Londo’s time was short. Durla kept his expression smooth.

“These allies of yours have explained to you all the terms of our agreement, yes?” said Londo.

“As you say, Majesty, power in exchange for their modest requests. The same deal as I’m sure you worked out with them all those years ago, when you began the war with the Narn.”

Durla watched with some secret amusement the dawning fear on Mollari’s face. A simple, deliberate misunderstanding, but the effect it wrought on Mollari was devastating.

“ _Them_? You think _they_ are the ones who--” Whatever Mollari was about to say was broken off by a wracking fit of coughs. The Emperor doubled over as dry hacking shook him from head to toe and the gun in his hand wavered. Durla did not miss his chance, he took a step back and twisted his body, jerking the wrist clenched in Mollari’s grip forward against the desk. With his free hand he smacked the barrel of the PPG away from his ribs. Mollari’s hands trembled from the fit and the gun skittered across the desk and clattered to the floor. Durla did not spare a moment for Londo, who was paralyzed by his own spasms, and in two steps had collected the PPG from the ground.

The fit passed and Londo looked up, shock passing quickly over his face before he raised his white-gloved hands in surrender. Flecks of blood joined the spots of brivari on his pure white coat. “Who is the treasonous one now, Durla, raising a weapon to the Emperor?”

“Who says I’m raising a weapon to you, your Majesty?” Durla said, and tucked the PPG into his belt at the small of his back and out of sight. “I think we can both agree this was a regrettable incident, one that will not be repeated. I’m sure I need not remind you that my men are everywhere in the palace. They too know the Emperor is quite mad, and they will know who to shoot first if such a situation arises again.”

“You’re not the one who will kill me, Durla,” Londo with a faint chuckle. “I hope you have factored that into your plans.”

“Interpreting the death dream is an imprecise art, one I leave to the seers,” said Durla. “Nevertheless, I have no intentions of harming you. There is still a great deal to be done and I like to have a clean slate when I begin a new job. You know they are already calling it Mollari’s Terror? Such an honor I think I will leave to my predecessor.” He turned his back very deliberately and walked towards the door.

“Durla,” the Emperor said from behind him. Durla did not turn but he stopped at the door. “They are called the Drakh, and they are not your friends. They are holding our people hostage with fusion bombs planted in every major city. If I help them it is because I must, for Centauri Prime. They have… other means of making me do their bidding, ways you cannot see, and they will kill anyone who exposes them, including you.”

“Ah, that does indeed solve one little mystery, your Majesty,” said Durla. He slowly turned. Londo was studying him intently, the signs of his inebriation faded almost completely. But relief swept Londo’s face. To be free of such a great secret would be an intense experience. It was almost a pity. “Or at least it would have a year ago. At first I did wonder how they made you so obedient, at least until they told me about your Keeper, and the alcohol you drink to subdue it. The effects are a little shorter each time, yes? Once it was a half hour, now it is little more than twenty minutes unless you drink yourself into a stupor. How much longer will it last, I wonder, if you continue to use it so recklessly?”

Mollari’s expression froze, and he jerked his head up, his throat working. He looked like a man who had gambled everything and lost more than he thought possible. Which, in many ways, he had. After a long moment, Mollari composed himself, blanking his expression. Then glanced down and gave a rueful, defeated sigh. “So, they have captured you as well.”

“There was no need. The fusion bombs were always meant as temporary insurance, and may yet prove useful if the uprisings begin at an inopportune time. They want our people angry, not dead, Mollari, otherwise they are of no use against the Alliance. That is why you too are still of use, a bad memory easily dispatched when the tide turns in our favor.” As he spoke, Mollari’s expression shifted again from frozen shock, thawing into rage.

“Then why let me live? Go on then, kill me now if you are so certain of them!” Mollari shouted, pounding a hand against his chest, but Durla could see through his bravado. The man’s face was paler than usual, almost green.

“Not yet, I am saving you for a special occasion. When that happens our people will welcome our new allies and will not hesitate to offer them a home in exchange for their help.”

“The Drakh have no interest in allies, they will destroy our people before they will share a world!” Mollari said, slicing a hand through the air for emphasis.

“In that you are wrong,” said Durla. “The Drakh are few in numbers, they could not destroy us all even if they wished to, and the cost to them is too great to make an attempt. They were once part of a vast army for the Shadows, they are not jealous of sharing a planet with their allies.” 

“You would destroy our people on a gamble—” Mollari began slowly, but Durla cut him off.

“Is that any different than what you planned?” Durla said. “Setting yourself against them, hoping to somehow outmaneuver them with your death? They have seen into you mind, Mollari, they know about the Narn, about your plans. Our only choice is to ally ourselves with them. And is that such a terrible thing? The Drakh are powerful, and they share our goal to strike back at the Alliance.”

“Who were our allies before the Drakh provoked them!” Mollari said, leaning forward and placing both hands on the desk as he shouted. He was trembling visibly now, whether with fear or rage Durla was now too far away to tell. 

“Some allies. They bombed us without a second thought, without pausing to even reconsider the evidence. What makes you think they wouldn’t have done it anyway given another excuse?” Londo’s fingernails scratched across the desk as his hands clenched, and Durla knew he had struck a nerve. “We Centauri are better off on our own.” 

“Then we will die alone,” Londo said, his voice growing hoarse. 

“Or we will live, and take back our place in the galaxy.”

Mollari barked a laugh. “Ah, that old line! I have heard it before and it doesn’t impress me as it once did.” He sobered. “This is a new age, and they are of the old age. They care nothing for us, Durla. They will drag us down with them, just so they can have their revenge.”

“They are not so irrational. I have spoken with their leader, and they know our value.”

“Yes, as cannon fodder.” Mollari shook his head and took a deep breath before Durla could respond. Whether it was anger or fear, it drained away leaving only a sort of implacable calm. “Do you want me to beg, Prime Minister? I will beg. Open your eyes. You have the power to save us all. You can contact the Alliance. Tell them the Drakh are here, that they are responsible for the Regent’s attacks. Kill me if you must, but for our people, not for their destroyers.” He paused, his face haggard and far older than Durla had ever seen him. “Please.”

“And if I do not, you will rely on your prophecies to save us? A death dream and the vision of an addled widow?” Durla said.

“If you help me,” Londo said carefully. “I will not have to.”

Durla paused and considered Mollari’s words. It was a gamble, true, but a straightforward one. On the one hand the Alliance, dominated these days by the Drazi and the Narn, already showed signs of internal strain as the different races bickered and Sheridan rushed with his half-breed wife around the galaxy putting out brush fires. On the other, the heirs to the Shadows, armed with technology millennia in advance of anything the Centauri possessed. True they had their personal vendetta against Mollari, but Durla had their assurances that they welcomed an ally in exchange for a home. The fusion bombs were a concern, but what were they against the armadas of a vengeful Alliance? One group only threatened the Centauri with fire; the other had already used it.

“I will not turn my back on the Centauri’s only hope for power,” Durla said. “Trust to your prophecies and dreams, Mollari, and I will trust to the Drakh. We’ll see who makes it to the finish line.” Londo’s shoulders sank, as whatever fervor had carried him drained away, and in that moment the Prime Minister did not regret his choice to side against the superstitious old man.

“They will make you their puppet, and our people will suffer for it,” Londo said, staring down at his hands on the desk. His voice cracked on the words.

“Only one of us wears a collar, your Majesty,” Durla said, tapping two fingers against his own shoulder in the spot where he knew the parasite crouched. “We’ll see in the end who is the puppet.”

A tremor ran down Londo’s body and his hand came up reflexively, stopping at nape of his neck. He gave a strangled groan, his face contorting, but at the sight of Durla watching Londo’s eyes darkened and he put a hand over his face to hide his agony.

“There is no need for that, Shiv’kala,” Durla said to the empty air. “He has not told me anything that will change my mind." 

The strangled gasps halted, as Durla knew they would. Mollari’s hand dropped from his face and he looked down at it, eyes wide in shock, and then up at Durla.

Durla turned without a second glance and opened the door. On the other side, hidden in the shadows of a corner, stood Shiv’kala. True the Drakh were ugly to look upon, with their red eyes and skin like dark, cragged stone, but Durla was not one to judge by appearances. Not that anyone would see Shiv’kala if they were to suddenly round the corner. The Drakh had a peculiar talent for hiding themselves in plain site, a talent Durla could appreciate.

“On second thought,” Durla murmured as if talking to himself. “Perhaps he deserves a lesson in guarding his tongue. There’s no knowing when he may try that sort of thing again.”

Shiv’kala nodded in silent agreement. Durla pulled the door shut behind him just as the screams began. 

* * *

The Drakh’s choice to replace Londo Mollari with Vir Cotto had surprised Durla, but not for long. The reasoning was sound, after all. Londo Mollari, for all his reliance on predictions and superstitions, was a canny politicians and manipulator. Once roused, he could do great damage to their plans, damage that would be difficult to correct. Vir Cotto on the other hand, was a bumbling fool, and had been left to his devices as ambassador to the Alliance for that reason. His duties were few, as was the information he was given from the home world. He had been kept almost completely in the dark about the proscriptions in the capital, and once told he stumbled over himself in shock. It would be months before Cotto gathered enough wits to tie his own shoes, let alone show Durla the slightest resistance.

It would be useful, to have an Emperor who was so easily intimidated. The Keeper had its uses, but its use still required the good will of Shiv’kala, and Durla was saving that for other purposes. Simple intimidation, on the other hand, could be employed without oversight or evidence. His only doubts had been on keeping Londo alive, but Shiv’kala pointed out that deal would keep Cotto tractable, and Durla understood the value of a hostage for Cotto’s good behavior. Babylon 5 was not so far, after all. And it might prove useful later to recall the old Emperor, with tales of kidnapping and torture at the hands of the Alliance, also easily provided.

All this Durla considered as he watched Cotto’s coronation from a place of honor at the top of the steps. The vows were made before the temple of the Great Maker, and Durla suppressed a wince as the fool stumbled over the words, casting surreptitious looks over his shoulder all the while. Once he might have been annoyed that Cotto’s turn came before his as Emperor, but that was before he had understood the full breadth of the work before him. It would take years to refashion Centauri Prime, and the road would be a bloody one. Mollari had been growing old, and his health was failing, Cotto would operate for many years as a scapegoat before he was dispatched. And from the looks of it Durla wouldn’t even need a weapon, the coward looked as if he could be be simply frightened to death.

Blood means nothing. No one is safe. There is no value in loyalty. Durla mused on these as the priest lowered the Imperial Seal around Cotto’s throat, brushing past the unseen Keeper. Durla could not help but wonder what lesson he would learn from Emperor Vir Cotto. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Roman Dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla and U.S. Senator Joseph McCarthy for lending inspiration to this chapter.


	6. Vir

How Londo had done this for so many years without going insane?

The royal court had lost none of its frivolity since the days of Cartagia. A stranger who saw only the palace’s glittering halls would never guess that just outside the gates half the city was still in ruins, two thirds of the Centaurum was missing or dead, and the treasury bankrupt. Such matters did not touch the gaiety of the perfumed lords and ladies.

Their laughter scraped at Vir’s fraying nerves as they passed by his throne, stopping to grab his attention, their smiles broad and white while they eyed him hungrily, considering what use he could be to them. Vir kept his gaze at a vague point on the opposite wall that he hoped made him look attentive, as even glancing at one of the wives of a courtier had ended with her husband nearly shoving the woman into his lap.

It wasn’t hard to be flustered and bumbling at a time like that. The real challenge lay in not letting it make him angry. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to massage away some of the headache building behind his eyes. He had spent hours listening to the invocations of the priests to all forty-nine gods (including Zoog), followed by the oaths of fealty from the surviving members of the Centarum, and then several more hours sitting through obscure traditions, being swept from one event to the other, all the while trying to ignore the Keeper sinking its tendrils into his mind and the bombs beneath his feet.

“Majesty?”

Vir started as Durla appeared at his elbow, wearing the amused half-smile Vir had seen on the lips his family, his teachers, and his fellow ambassadors. The smile of someone secretly laughing at him. He sighed inwardly and drew the tattered remains of his mask around him. “O-oh! Prime Minister Durla!” he stuttered.

“Can I be of some assistance, Majesty? You seem distressed,” said Durla. His tone was neutral but Vir couldn’t help but feel patronized as the taller man leaned down to speak with him. Vir’s headache gave another throb as he debated his next words under the cover of appearing surprised at Durla’s question.

“Me? Oh I’m just…it’s only that…” Vir lowered his voice, “It’s been a long day and I’m starting to get a bit tired. I think I’ll retire soon. That is what the Emperor does, right? ‘Retires’, he can’t just say he’s going to bed.” Vir gave a nervous laugh. Durla must see through it,  must know Vir had served as ambassador for half a decade and he would not have survived it if he was truly this vapid. But the man’s condescending expression never wavered nor his tone shift from that of someone speaking to a rather dim child.

“Majesty, I’m afraid that’s simply not possible. The celebration will be going on for hours yet, and the Emperor must be in attendance,” Durla said.

“But…if I’m the Emperor, shouldn’t I be able to leave when _I_ wish to?” said Vir, and perhaps it was the headache but he couldn’t keep the edge out of his question. Then again, a bit of exhausted petulance wouldn’t hurt his image.

“A romantic notion, your Majesty, but flawed. Your life is not your own anymore. You are a public figure now, the _most_ public figure on Centauri Prime. You must be available at all times and in all capacities to your people. Now they are celebrating, so you too must celebrate.” 

“But what are they celebrating?” Vir said, looking out over the milling crowd that filled the throne room. “They don’t know me and we’ve just…” He glanced at Durla, who watched Vir with a warning glint in his eyes. “…lost Londo. Shouldn’t they be in mourning?”

“They’re celebrating your coronation, Majesty. Do not judge them for it, there has been very little to celebrate these past years.” Vir nodded to himself, feeling the niggle of shame at his own attitude. Until Durla went on. “That being said, they _are_ celebrating Mollari’s death. ‘The Assassin’ some have taken to calling him; others ‘the Executioner’, that one has been around for quite awhile, only now they speak it openly. The better informed call him ‘the Drunk’. At this point, I imagine there is very little you need do to be more popular than he. The common people will have their tantrums, he was a tyrant but he was _their_ tyrant and as they see it the Alliance had no right to kill one of their own, but without the spectacle of their nobility on the chopping block they will soon move on to the next entertainment. I’m sure the Court will make a great show of their grief, and some of it may even be real, as I’m sure many regret missing their chance to do the deed themselves.”

Vir’s hand gave a throb of protest and he looked down at his hands clenching the throne’s armrest in a death grip, his fingernails burrowing into the plush fabric. He took a silent breath and released it, surreptitiously flexing to restore feeling to his fingers. He was no duelist, but he would have given a great deal in that moment to have Londo’s _coutari_ blade in his hand. Anger crackled in his stomach and along his skin, flushing his cheeks. He kept his eyes downcast and breathed until he could speak without his voice giving him away. “Well, it’s nice to know that I’ll be popular,” he said with vapid cheer.

Durla’s thin, mocking smile returned. “As you say, Majesty. With your permission, I shall return to the fray. There are several ministers to whom I must give my regards. I will have the servants bring along some jala to refresh you.”  Vir did not mention that he no longer drank jala, and gave a nod of what he hoped looked like appreciation as he settled back into the throne. Jala had been Londo’s favorite, and Vir had avoided the drink since they parted. Probably for the best, in case Durla had poisoned it.... Great Maker, there was a thought. Durla wouldn’t poison him this early, would he?

 _He will not, not unless he is ordered_. A voice whispered in the back of his mind. The voice of the creature, Shiv’Kala. The thing that had tortured Londo, that held his people hostage; just stopping by to remind him it could read his every thought. The anger in his chest flared again but he damped it in the coals of his exhaustion. The Keeper gave a dry chuckle at the back of his mind.

Not yet, he reminded himself. He could not think of what it was, couldn’t allow himself another glimpse of the thing taking shape in his head. Whatever it was though, whatever it would do, he couldn’t acknowledge it. Not yet. He could feel the creature’s curiosity; its tendrils digging into his mind like roots, sucking at his thoughts as if they were water. It couldn’t find what he didn’t know yet, could it? It couldn’t… 

“Vir Cotto!” Vir’s head jerked up at a shrill, familiar voice ringing out from the far end of the room. A woman was shoving her way through the crowd, garbed from head to toe in black. Behind her trailed a smaller figure also in black, holding to the back of the woman’s dress for dear life. Whoever it was, she moved without any regard for the lords and ladies dancing at the center of the room, shoving and even elbowing them aside as she strode forward. It took Vir a moment to realize why, or who, until he recognized the petite form of Londo’s wife Timov, and a young woman he did not recognize. Vir jumped to his feet, and had already begun to bow before it even occurred to him he had no idea where they stood now in terms of rank.

“My lady Timov, what are you doing here?” Vir said as Timov swept to a halt in front of the throne. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Timov said arching an eyebrow. “This is rather sudden for all of us. My husband not even buried and you already sit upon the throne. Would you care to _explain_ to me this rapid turn of events?” 

“I…well, I guess I’m here because Londo made me his heir,” Vir said weakly. Behind Timov the gazes of the courtiers were turned toward the throne with silent fascination. 

Vir saw movement out of the corner of his eye and had only a second to react as the young woman at Timov’s side took two long steps, drew her arm back, and delivered a full-armed slap across his face. Pain bloomed across his cheek as his head snapped to the side. Even the Keeper seemed surprised, as the faint buzzing Vir had sensed at the back of his mind since he received it went silent.

“You bastard!” he heard her shriek. “You were like a son to him. How _could_ you?”

Despite the pain, one thought rang horribly in Vir’s mind. The woman had just struck the Emperor in a room full of guards. The punishment for such an attack would swift, certain, and final.  “Don’t hurt her!” Vir said, putting up a hand to halt his guards. He sucked in air and shook his head to clear his vision, and once the stars faded he saw…nothing.

No one had moved. The court only stared at the spectacle before them, some tittering behind their hands. The guards weren’t even looking at him, their attention was fixed on Durla. Vir’s gaze drifted to his Prime Minister and saw the man was smiling as if entertained by a show. The woman, in the meantime, was panting with rage and looked ready for a second blow.

“I…uh, never mind,” Vir said. The woman drew her arm back again, but Vir was already on his feet, and caught her wrist mid-strike. “Please stop that,” he said gently. Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth for a retort.

“Senna!” Timov snapped, and the young woman turned. “This isn’t the time.” She paused and tilted her head to the side, considering. “Maybe later.”

The young woman, Senna, nodded and Vir didn’t stop her as she tugged her wrist free with a glare and returned to Timov’s side. Timov put her arm around Senna and drew her close. “Vir, this is Senna, my ward. You may remember the late Lord Refa, of whom my husband was so fond. She is his daughter.” Vir noted Timov made no attempt to apologize for Senna’s attack.

“I see,” Vir said. He knew Refa as the head of a Great House must have a family, but hadn’t really thought of it beyond that, as he’d had as little to do with the man as possible. Well, besides play an unwilling role in his death. His head was still spinning from the slap, and the pressure from the silent gazes of the court was suffocating, but he gave Senna Refa a short nod nonetheless. “My lady.”

“You will of course forgive her,” Timov said in her sharp, crisp tone. One that brooked no argument. “She was close to my late husband and feels a certain sense of betrayal that he was replaced so quickly.”

“A necessary step in a time of such crisis, Lady Timov,” Durla said as he detached from the crowd to take his place at Vir’s side. He glanced at Vir and down to the throne in a silent command to sit, and Vir saw Timov eye the both of them as he complied.

“As I am still the dowager Empress, Durla, the title remains ‘your Majesty’, a detail you would do well to remember the next time you order your toadies to keep me away from the palace,” said Timov, regarding Durla the same as she might a piece of manure stuck to the bottom of her shoe. 

“A simple mistake. I assure you it will not happen again,” Durla said, but the chill had returned to his gaze as he spoke with Timov, and he did not explain what exactly the mistake had been.

Timov sniffed. “Indeed. Come, Vir, we must talk and this room is far too noisy. I have a few questions to ask you about your new _position_.”

Vir gave Durla an apprehensive look, and found the Prime Minister’s already focusing on him, his eyebrows arched in warning. Vir turned back to Timov and said meekly, “The party will be going late into the night, Lady Timov, and since I’m Emperor, the Prime Minister has informed me that I really do need to stay. Maybe tomorrow we could-”

“What nonsense is this?” Timov interrupted. “Vir Cotto, you do not ‘need’ to stay unless you choose. The Emperor is not bound to the whims of empty headed courtiers. If you wish to leave, you may leave, if I wish you to come with me you may accept or decline but it is _your_ prerogative. My husband certainly wouldn’t stand for this and neither should you. I can assure you, the court will have no trouble emptying the palace wine cellar without your supervision.”

“But I-” Vir glanced desperately between Durla and Timov. He wasn’t ready to navigate this kind of power play so early, and he had forgotten all about Timov in the confusion of the past days. As dowager Empress, and therefore one of the most powerful woman on Centauri Prime, she could be his best ally, if not for Durla. Standing up to his Prime Minister so early would destroy the image he was cultivating and cause suspicion he couldn’t afford.

Luckily, Timov seemed to recognize the situation and drew herself to her full (if unimpressive) height, and said, “As the widow of the Emperor, I am now his official voice in this world. Vir Cotto, you have a responsibility to commune with your predecessor on the eve of your reign. That is our tradition, after all, and we must keep to it even if all else is collapsing into barbarism around us.” She gave Durla a pointed look.

“She _is_ right,” Vir said to Durla with a shrug and as pathetic voice as he could muster. He got to his feet, straightening his white jacket self-consciously, and descended the dais to Timov’s side.

“Stand up straight, Vir, no slouching,” Timov muttered out of the corner of her mouth, then stepped forward to lead their small procession out of the throne room. Eyes glittered with interest as they passed, and he could feel Durla’s gaze digging into his back. He focused on bobbing tail of Senna’s dark hair as she walked beside Timov. She had the poise of a high lady, but then she would as a daughter of House Refa. Where Timov was all business, her steps swift and no-nonsense, Senna’s spine could have been iron. She carried herself with enough of the cold arrogance of born nobility to make Durla look like a displaced commoner.

There was no doubt that Vir was the least imposing of the three of them. As a child his posture was always hunched, cringing away from his father's gaze; from the gaze of everyone in House Cotto. Being invisible had helped him too when Londo’s mysterious guests came and went, high lords like Refa and clients oozing obsequiousness as they plied Londo for attention and favor. No one ever noticed Londo’s attaché except Londo himself, when he asked what Vir thought of this or that visitor. Londo had never chastised him for speaking his mind, but as the deals grew darker and the visits more suspicious, Vir made his disapproval known and Londo had stopped asking. Then he sent Vir away. 

Vir had learned some confidence on Minbar, some poise from watching the graceful Minbari, but it was still easy to fall into his old ways. Like slipping on a comfortable and worn set of clothes, he had let those hard lessons fall by the wayside when he realized that they would not serve his purpose against Durla or the Drakh. 

The creature stirred against his throat as his thoughts woke it. Curiosity rose off it like a miasma, curiosity it wanted him to feel. It wanted him to know it listened, and that it intended to sniff out the exact nature of whatever plan that required him to hide behind cringing subservience. Vir took a deep breath and blanked his mind, filling it instead with memories of his childhood, of the relief he felt when he passed through a crowded room without notice or punishment. The Keeper let him feel its suspicion, but refocused its attention on the black-clad form of Timov before him.

 _You will tell her nothing of what has happened_. It spoke with Shiv’Kala’s dry whisper, and Vir bit his lip. 

 _But her husband is alive, shouldn’t she at least know that?_ He wasn’t sure how their connection worked, whether it was anything like telepathy, but the Keeper seemed to hear him.

 _Nothing_ , it said, and went silent, ignoring the rushing of Vir’s questions and thoughts. He tried projecting hope, the hope that he could at least have this, that at least he wouldn’t have to see the suspicion in Timov’s eyes and the outright hatred in Senna’s. But the Keeper said nothing more.

Timov stopped in front of the private offices of the Emperor, the ones Vir had not yet had the time to see in the whirlwind of the coronation, and pushed open the heavy bronze doors without hesitation. Vir’s breath caught at the sight that opened before him and he wandered past Timov, hypnotized.

The massive room had been decorated as almost an exact replica of Londo’s office on Babylon 5. Only the size was different, on a far grander scale than anything feasible on the station: after the huge bronze doors there were plush couches for receiving guests and broad windows that looked out over the gardens. The ornaments and gifts that had filled their quarters on Babylon 5 were scattered across the bookshelves and the desk. He recognized them all; the stone carvings from Drazi, glass ornaments from Minbar, bottles of expensive Human liquors, and Londo’s own collection of Centauri religious statuary. Yet for all that they had crowded their room on Babylon 5, they barely covered the vast empty shelves and desk of the Imperial offices. Against the grand dimensions the ornaments seemed small and sad, as if no more than tawdry souvenirs.

It was all here. Vir had not expected this, had not thought Londo cared. During the first year, Vir had called and written every week, but without answer. At the time it had just seemed further proof that Londo saw no need for his old friends now that he was Emperor. Vir had sent the boxes of Londo’s belongings back one at a time, the first parcel went with the wild hope that it might prompt some reaction. Happiness or anger, it didn’t matter. When it went unacknowledged, Vir started leaving little notes stuck to each gift or trophy with the memory of where it came from, or a joke if Vir didn’t remember. There was never any reply. He assumed the boxes went unopened. Wandering the shelves of ornaments with a Keeper at his throat and a lie on his lips, Vir could begin to understand why Londo might surround himself with memories of friends he could never speak to again.

One item in particular caught his eye. Vir frowned and plucked the ornament from the desk. It had been sitting in a place of honor at the center, but whatever value it had must have been purely sentimental. It was a simple shot glass from the Zocalo on Babylon 5, but the sight of it made Vir’s heart clench with homesickness. The trip to Centauri Prime was only supposed to last a week. By now, friends like Ta’Lon and Mr. Allan would know he wasn’t coming back. Word of his coronation would be filtering back to the station. After ten years, Babylon 5 was the only home Vir had ever known. He would probably never see it again.

He heard an impatient cough from behind him and turned to see Timov and Senna settled on one of the white velvet couches by the window. Timov nodded for Vir to take a seat across from her. Vir sat, feeling more like a guilty child than an Emperor. Which was a bit unfair considering he hadn’t killed Londo and hadn’t done anything wrong.

Well, nothing except usurp Londo’s throne and upset all his plans to defeat the Drakh. Suddenly Timov’s gaze weighed heavier on him. Surely she couldn’t know? Not if she was alive, he didn’t need the Keeper to tell him that. Now he was squirming and while that might help the image he was trying to create, it certainly wasn’t helping his case.

“Well, Vir,” Timov said in her prim voice, which lowered in dire warning, “ _explain_.” 

Vir shifted and looked down at his hands. “What is there to tell? I came to see Londo because I heard…things. About the proscriptions, the executions. I had to know why it was happening, maybe see if I could stop them.” Senna gave a disbelieving sniff.

“So, you came as his friend, hoping to reason with him? What if he had refused to listen?” Timov said.

Vir floundered. “I don’t know, I guess I would have tried to find another way.”

“And did you?” Timov said.

Vir’s heart dropped to his shoes and he looked up, aghast. “Are you asking if I _killed_ Londo?”

“It would not be the first time such things have happened. After all, someone had a hand in offing that madman, Cartagia.” Vir froze, feeling his hearts would stop. He could feel the golden needle in his hand; see those dark eyes go wide with shock then blank in death. Did she know, how could she know, no one knew even when he had felt them watching him and judging him and… “And good riddance, I say. Oh there’s no need to play the innocent, Vir, everyone knows he was murdered; just as everyone knows it was my husband who did it. You needn’t cover for him anymore.” Vir released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, but a cold sweat had broken out at his hairline and the face of the long-dead Emperor, his predecessor now, hovered smirking at the back of his mind.

He closed his eyes against the image, and said with as much calm and dignity as he could muster, “Lady Timov, Londo is my friend. I would never hurt him.”

“You mean he _was_ ,” Senna said. She looked up from her folded hands and glared at Vir.

“Senna,” Timov admonished. “I want to believe you, Vir, truly I do, but time can change even the best of friendships. You had not seen Londo for many years, and he was not kind to you when you were together. Great Maker knows my husband could be difficult. No one would blame you for feeling resentment toward him.”

“I—what? No! Maybe we didn’t always agree, but—” 

“The throne can be a tempting prize for anyone. I have seen stronger men than you go mad at the thought of it,” Timov continued.

“No, listen! I didn’t _want_ the throne. I didn’t even know Londo wanted to give it to me until that day!” Vir said.

“But once given, it may give any man ideas,” Timov said. 

“I guess? But I didn’t—”

“The ink was not even dry on the page!” Senna Refa said, her accent thickening with her anger. “What good is loyalty when you have the key to the throne in your hand, yes?”

“After everything you did for him, he practically owed you the throne, didn’t he, Vir?” Timov said. Her rosebud lips twisted around the words as if they left a bad taste.

“Stop!” he cried, and somehow he was on his feet, his hands clenched in shaking fists at his sides. Tears strangled choked his throat and stung his eyes. “Just stop it! How can you even say that? I would give up the throne a _thousand_ times over if it meant none of this was happening, if it meant having him here and safe.” His voice cracked midsentence, and he scrubbed the white silk sleeve across his eyes and tried to swallow back the tightness in his throat. It wouldn’t budge and words came out a furious whisper. “He’s my best friend, I would do anything for him, I did—!” He bit back the words before the Keeper could make him. One tear burned hot down his face and pressed the palm of his hand over his eyes. Old shame reminded him that he should turn, that he shouldn’t cry like a child in front of these women. He gasped, try to force them back, but they wouldn’t stop. It was either laugh or cry, and once started he wouldn’t be able to stop until they were certain he was mad.

A cool hand came to rest on the back of his neck and Vir stiffened and dropped his hand from his face.  Timov was looking up at him, her brows drawn together with grief and understanding. “Oh, Vir,” she said. “I know, dear. Hush, I know.” She drew him close against her, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her chin to his shoulder. One hand stroked patted the back of his hair as if he was a child. He wondered if his own mother had done this for him.

Timov did not let him go until the trembling stopped, and the last of the tightness in his throat eased. Vir drew back, looking down at the petite woman. “You knew?” 

Timov sighed and looked away. “Well I couldn’t know for certain. I believe you are a good man, Vir, but you must know why I would suspect. More than just friendships have been sacrificed for the throne.” 

“So you believe me?” Vir said with relief.

“Of course not,” Timov said, and the relief winked out. “Not entirely. Oh, I do not believe you killed my husband, but then I do not believe that Cartagia had any hand in the death of Prime Minister Malachi, even if it was to his benefit. You too could very well be a convenient pawn for someone else. And you are hiding something Vir. I don’t know what it is, but even now you’re not telling me the whole truth.”

“Can you understand that I’m doing it to protect you?” Vir said, feeling small and miserable and ridiculous even as he said it. The Keeper sent a shiver of warning down his spine, an unnecessary reminder of its presence. 

“To protect me from _what_ , Vir?” Timov snapped and Vir realized he had a hit nerve, more like an old wound covered by iron and ice. “The court? Do you think I’m afraid of them, of little social climbers like Durla and his toadies?”

“He’s protecting you from the ones who killed Londo, Lady Timov,” Senna said from her place on the couch. She was frowning to herself, part in grief, but her eyes were distant as if she was just beginning to see a shape through the fog. “Isn’t that right, your Majesty?” Senna said, as she looked up at Vir.

Vir looked between them, the solemn young woman on the couch and Timov, whose lips had drawn to a tight line. There was just the barest quiver of her chin as she looked at him. In that moment he realized: this was what Londo had faced every day, and he had been a fool to think he could avoid it. It was going to be worse than facing a woman who thought he had murdered her husband. It was going to be days, years, of silences and evasions as he danced to the tune of Durla, protecting the secret of the Drakh, all without explanation. All of this on the chance he could save their lives and no one, maybe not even Londo, would understand or forgive.

“Yes.” Vir closed his eyes. “The Court is more dangerous than either of you know. The safest thing for you to do is to leave. Go…somewhere else, anywhere. Londo would have wanted it that way.”

“I know,” Timov said. Her tone was sharp, but its edge was that of a blade dulled by wear. “He already sent me away once. As if he needed to. We rarely saw each other after the coronation. In all those years, I attended only a few necessary court functions. We rarely spoke. He barely looked at me.”

Vir lifted a hand to pat her on the shoulder but stopped before he touched her, his hand hovering. Timov was looking away from him and towards the ceiling. She blinked rapidly, but her voice remained steady. “We met once after the executions began. Only once. He was drunk, of course.” She gave a derisive sniff, even if it sounded more like a sniffle. “I demanded to know why he was allowing it to happen, all the blood, even his own friends. And do you know what he said to me, Vir?”

Vir shook his head and lowered his hand.

“He asked,” and Timov gave a small cough to clear her throat. “If I truly believed him capable of that. And I said…I didn’t really know anymore. He had no answer for that, not even to deny it. He took another sip of that foul brivari of his and he said that I should leave the capital, never speak to him again, never contact him.”

She turned to him after a moment. Her eyes were shining, but her cheeks dry. “Tell me, Vir, did he know then that this was going to happen? Are you saying he was trying to protect us?”

Vir looked down, unable to meet her stare. He knew. Even if Londo hadn’t told him, Vir knew. He nodded.

“I see,” was all Timov said. Senna stood and went to Timov’s side, placing an arm around her and allowing Timov to lean against her while Vir looked on helplessly. 

“I can make arrangements for you, if Londo hasn’t already,” Vir offered. 

Timov’s head snapped up. “And why in the world would I let you do that?” 

“Because…we just agreed you shouldn’t be here?” Vir said. 

“Vir Cotto, if you think I’m going to leave the capital I’m afraid you have another thing coming! It’s clear to me that you need all the help you can get against this threat at the heart of our Republic. I should have recognized it sooner. The executions, the secrecy, that monster Durla now Prime Minister? Bah, I have been unforgivably out of touch.” She fixed Vir with a look. “I still believe there is something more you are hiding Vir, and it isn’t only to protect us. But I am the dowager Empress and not without some power of my own. In the meantime, however, I am at your service.” 

“No, Lady Timov, no this isn’t what I meant!” Vir said, but the woman plowed on. 

“I understand you cannot inform me, have no fear. I can be discreet as well. But there is no rule that says the Emperor cannot meet with the voice of his predecessor, and we shall do just that. Come, Senna. The Emperor is tired and we have a great deal to do.”

Vir gaped as Timov swept from the office. On the one hand, he was beginning to understand a bit of why Londo may have taken a position billions of light-years away, on the other he could not help but feel the tiniest bit lighter as he snuck his way through the hall to his bed before any courtier could see.

 

* * *

The week past in a flurry of celebrations, ceremonies, and meetings. Vir was introduced to each of his ministers, though he was given no chance to speak with them alone as Durla managed every encounter. There was always too little time for Vir to ask questions or give an opinion before he was swept off to the next engagement. Nevertheless, Timov found time in the afternoon to steal an hour for his “communions” with Londo’s spirit. He wasn’t sure what Londo would think of the idea of Timov as his representative in the realm of the living. Probably laugh and grab a drink, which was something Vir would very much like to try himself. For some reason there was never brivari or alcohol of any kind offered to him at the official state dinners, or the various receptions. He could not say he minded, it was certainly preferable to the excesses he had come to expect from Londo’s many stories of court life, but it was one of many small things over which he had no power despite his new position.

At the moment, he was sitting in the Imperial offices again, staring at a stack of well-wishes and ceremonial decrees that needed his signature so that the ship of state may continue upon its merry road to ruin, when the door opened and revealed Durla. 

He was carrying a folder under one arm and hardly glanced at Vir as he closed the door behind him. He wore his usual black coat with gold embroidery at the wrists and collar, but for once he did not move with his usual long, purposeful steps. He seemed careful, distracted even as he laid the folder in front of Vir and handed him a pen.

“Sign this,” he said. Vir accepted the pen more out of surprise than willingness, but held it poised over the page. 

“What is it?”

“A routine order, nothing that concerns you,” Durla said. He wasn’t even looking at Vir, but rather back to the door as if impatient to be on his way. 

Well, wasn’t that interesting? Vir placed the pen to the side of the page and lifted it, his eyes scanning the official legalese until the meaning clicked in his head like the cocking of a gun 

“This is a military order,” Vir said, and looked up to Durla. “But we’re not at war with anyone.”

“Just sign it, your Majesty,” Durla sighed. “This is a matter of urgent national security. It cannot wait.” 

“I can’t sign something if I don’t understand it, Prime Minister,” Vir said. “It says here you’re deploying troops to Centaullus, our cultural capital. Why would troops be needed in a university town?”

“Majesty, it is a complicated matter and I do not have the time to explain,” said Durla.

Great Maker, he’s afraid. Vir folded his arms and settled back in the chair. “Then I don’t have time to sign it. Tell me what’s going on, Prime Minister, since I’ll probably be finding out from someone else soon enough.” 

Durla’s brow furrowed and he looked at Vir as if seeing him for the first time. His lips twisted and flashed sharp canines as he considered. “Very well,” Durla said, turning to face Vir. “I will be brief, as the details will likely escape you. There have been pockets of civil unrest since we released the news of Mollari’s death. The people are angry, a turn of events our intelligence services did not anticipate. They are blaming the government rather than Alliance. At the moment, the protests are concentrated amongst the students in Centallus, but with the proper show of force I am confident the whole matter can be swiftly resolved.” 

“But if you use troops, people are going to get hurt,” Vir pointed out.

“Such is the way of things, Majesty. If they didn’t want to be hurt, then they shouldn’t have joined with insurrectionists.” Durla pushed the pen back towards Vir.

“Wait a minute, you said they’re protesting because they’re angry their Emperor has been killed and no one is doing anything about it. That doesn’t really sound like insurrection,” Vir said, and pushed the pen away again.

“They are moving against the government. There is no other word for them. That being said, no one could not have anticipated their anger being directed at the government rather than the Alliance.”

“Of course not. That would require actually paying attention,” Vir snapped, and drew himself short. He was showing his hand too early, but there was no way around it. He just had to keep going. “Prime Minister, I can’t let you send troops against people whose only crime is being angry that their Emperor is dead.”

“It’s true, the cause for their anger is understandable.”

“Then you’ll forget about sending in troops.” 

Durla’s eyebrows rose. “Of course not. We can’t be having civil unrest at a time like this.”

“And what time is this?” Vir said leaning forward. “You keep going on about this not being the time, but it was _your idea_ to direct their anger towards the Alliance. Well, now they’re angry! Soon they’re going to take matters into their own hands, because we won’t. Why? What are you waiting for?”

“If our allies have not informed you then it is not my place to say,” said Durla.

“This is about the—!” Vir cringed as a shiver of pain from the Keeper went down his spine and he lowered his voice. “This is about _them_? About _him_? You _know_ about them?”

Another a shiver of warning trickled down Vir’s spine as the Keeper called his attention. ‘ _This one serves us knowingly. You will not interfere with him_.’

 _‘He’s going to cause a civil war!’_ Vir shot back. _‘If he sends in troops, the people will go mad! The whole planet will erupt, and none of us will be able to control it!’_

The Keeper went silent, and Vir realized with shock it was listening to him. Listening and no longer certain.

“They have given me their full support in this,” Durla said. “Majesty, I advise you to give me free rein in this for your sake as well as theirs. If the troops are not enough, the best solution may be to call upon the fusion bomb planted beneath Centallus. We shall tell the people it was smuggled there by Alliance spies. A terrible thing, really, that such powerful weapons can be so easily concealed in so small a package. It will take care of the dissenters and allow us to say we did our best to protect them against the larger threat.”

Vir jaw dropped. “Are you insane? Did you seriously just threaten to _use_ one of their weapons? Do I really need to tell you that I will never give you permission to kill millions of our own people? _”_ At some point Vir had gotten to his feet, his breath thundering in his ears. Durla still loomed over him, but this was quickly remedied when Vir grabbed him by the collar, feeling more rage than he had felt since the Drazi spy on Babylon 5. “There is _nothing_ you can threaten me with that will make me allow that!”

Durla’s eyes were like chips of ice. “You are only Emperor as long as you are useful, Cotto. I can assure you, misguided bravery such as this will not lead to a long and fruitful reign.” 

“Go ahead then, kill me. I _dare_ you.” Vir dragged Durla closer. “I’m sure the people will calm down right away when they hear they’ve lost two Emperors in two weeks.”

Durla hesitated. It was brief, but Vir saw it. Durla had not considered that threats might not work, that his usual path of blood would only make the road too slippery to walk. And he was wondering: how was Vir still holding onto him? Why had the Drakh not pulled him back? Why weren’t they defending him? All this passed over Durla’s face in the blink of an eye.

Vir struck.

“How much time do we need?” Vir said. Durla’s gaze flickered at Vir’s use of “we”, but he was already off balance and perhaps some old instinct to obey a superior’s command pushed him over.

“Ten years. Our military buildup will reach peak efficiency, and our allies say their own arrangements will enter the final stages. The effects, I’m told, will be devastating.” Vir nodded, even if inside he reeled. Durla was watching him, but a slight change had come over him. Some of the self-satisfied slyness had drained away to be replaced with speculation.

“Ten years? Fine. First things first, I am not going to sign this,” Vir released Durla’s collar and picked up the order. With a single motion he tore it down the center without taking his eyes off Durla. “Next, you are going to make an announcement. Tell the protestors that they have been heard. Tomorrow I’m going to address the city…no, I’m going to address the entire Republic.”

“And what exactly are you planning to tell them?” Durla said. His voice was cold but held a note of something, curiosity, maybe fear. For the first time, Durla was listening to Vir rather than simply smiling while Vir talked.

Vir balled up the last of the order and tossed back onto the desk. “I don’t know yet. I’m buying time, Prime Minister. Time to consider a plan that doesn’t involve killing our own people before the Alliance gets its chance. Don’t forget I’m cleaning up _your_ mess.”

Durla’s mouth twisted, but there was nothing he could do. He was trapped, and even worse, he was intrigued. “Very well. If you can resolve this without force, I shall stand corrected. Perhaps you are not the fool others have said you are, Cotto,” Durla said, eyes glittering.

Vir laughed. “Oh no, I’m a fool. I’m the biggest fool in the galaxy. But I’ve been cleaning up messes for a long time, Prime Minister. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s that.”

“Very well, Majesty,” Durla said after a moment. “We will do it your way this time. But remember, some day there will be a reckoning, and a bloody one at that. Let’s hope your mercy is not misplaced.” He turned and walked toward the door in sharp, calculated steps; the heavy bronze doors slammed behind him.

“I’m sure there will be, Durla,” Vir murmured, not caring that the Keeper listened at his shoulder. “And one way or the other, I don’t think mercy will have much to do with it.”

* * *

 

The sun set over the domes and spires of the capital, blood red and streaked with trails of smoke from the burnt out ruins. The smoke did not come from the destruction itself, though it had taken days to quell the full extent of the inferno in the aftermath of the bombings. These days, the smoke rose from squatters who scrounged what lives they could amongst the ruins of their former homes, burning what was too damaged to be saved or sold for food.

Vir’s wrist twitched to close the heavy white curtain against the sight but stopped, and forced himself to look. Millions of people, of _his_ people, already hurt and haunted and starved. This time exhaustion was not enough to hold back the tide of rage that swept over him. They needed shelter, food, medicine, and it was all denied so the Drakh could harvest their anger against the Alliance. Ten more years of desperation and want, only to be thrown into a second meat grinder they could not hope to survive. Not that there would be any choice. With the bombs beneath their feet it was a choice of dying to the Drakh or dying to the Alliance. It wouldn’t matter if the Alliance didn’t make war on civilians, the Drakh would force the Centauri forward until they had no choice. Their lives meant less than nothing to the Drakh. After the last child had died in battle, the Drakh would launch their own war from their new home world.

Once Vir might have wept at the thought, or fought down horror that rose with the bile in his throat. Instead he felt only a strange, icy calm. It was as if all other thoughts churned beneath the surface of a frozen lake while he walked across the hardened surface. All sound faded to a background hum even as his vision sharpened, and Vir Cotto gazed out over the jagged ruins of the capital, and saw the stark reality of his people’s genocide.

Funny, that he had once wondered how he would save the lives of the protestors in Centaullus, hardly daring to consider the larger specter of an entire planet on the verge of annihilation. He shouldn’t have worried. Really, it was all so simple.

He closed his hand around the Keeper at his throat. The creature, too wrapped up in deciphering Vir’s thoughts to notice the threat, spasmed and jerked beneath his hand like a living heart. It screamed in his mind, but Vir only waited for it to stop sending bolts of pain through his nervous system and listen. “Tell Shiv’Kala I need to talk to the Drakh.

“Then speak, little Centauri. The Drakh listen.” Vir stiffened, and turned. The setting sun washed the Imperial bedchamber in crimson and glinted on the stony surface of Shiv’Kala’s skin, shadowing the creature’s eyes.

Vir swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. How long had Shiv’Kala stood there? His skin prickled, the same chill prey must feel when it feels the brush of a predator past its hiding place. “Not just you. All of you, the Drakh nation.” 

“The Drakh Entire does not grant audience to slaves,” said Shiv’Kala. His form, bathed in the red light of the sunset, blurred at the edges and became insubstantial. He seemed ready to dissipate into the shadows of the coming night like smoke.

“Wait!” Vir said, and perhaps it was his imagination but Shiv’Kala snapped back into focus and the tilt of the Drakh’s head held a note of surprise. “Either you let me talk to them or our deal is off.”

 “You do not get to decide the conditions of our agreement, little Centauri.” 

“Then detonate the bombs.” Even from beyond the wall of ice, a thrill went up Vir’s spine as he spoke those words.

“Do not try to bluff, little Centauri, we are in your mind and can see your thoughts at all times.” But perhaps something Shiv’Kala found there had caught him off guard, for he no longer seemed as certain.

“Then you know it’s not a bluff.” Another pause and even as the cold pooled in his stomach and fear churned beneath the lake, Vir knew it was true and somehow that was important. “And I am not ‘little Centauri.’ I am Emperor Cotto the First of the Centauri Republic, and if I’m not allowed to speak to the Drakh Entire as a representative of my people then we really are no better than slaves. Worse, actually. Even a slave can file a complaint with the government against their master. Are we less than slaves to you? If so you might as well kill us now.”

“You would do well not to tempt me. Your race means little to us,” said Shiv’Kala.

“If that’s true then why _shouldn’t_ we fight now? If we are nothing to you then I see no reason to believe you won’t use the fusion bombs once our usefulness is worn out. Contact your government, Shiv’Kala, or whatever you call it, or use the bombs now. Do it, or you’d better kill all of us because I know my people and whatever survivors are left will find you, all of you, and when they do they will…”

“They will what?” Shiv’Kala said. His eyes glittered in the dying light.

“…Well, whatever it is, it will be unpleasant and really, really slow.” Whatever ice keeping Vir from what was now the boiling lake of fear on the other side was melting by the minute, and a small voice that was left over from what had once been shy, clumsy little Vir Cotto was gibbering with terror at the corner of his mind. But really, it was no different than facing the monsters of the Technomages. At least that’s what he told himself.

Shiv’Kala was watching him, and with each passing second Vir could imagine the ice being replaced by the flash of heat and short (probably _very_ short) agony as millions of megatons of bombs exploded beneath his feet. Finally, Shiv’Kala spoke.

“I have spoken with the Drakh Entire. Killing your people would draw unnecessary attention at this moment. We have agreed. You will have your audience.” 

Vir gaped but quickly shut his mouth. “When, where? Don’t tell me you agreed to all of that just now?”

“The Drakh Entire is vast, it is eternal. We know each other’s minds even as I know your mind. There is no need for debate, for all voices join the greater voice.”

Vir’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t want me to speak to them. They overruled you.”

“There is no dissent in the Drakh Entire,” Shiv’Kala said, but was that an edge of irritation in his voice? Vir found it was becoming easier to catch the emotions of the creature, as alien as it was.  “Lie upon the bed. Your body will no longer be your own once the connection has opened.”

“ _Now_?” Vir said, his voice rising almost to a squeak.

“Yes, little Centauri,” Shiv’Kala said and there was, some hint of smug amusement. Why was it suddenly so clear? It was as if Vir could feel the emotions coming from Shiv’Kala, even as the Drakh’s face remained impassive as ever. “Already you feel the connection opening. Quickly now, or your fragile body will suffer when your will stands before our race.”

At first he’d thought it was the falling night, but Vir realized then that his vision was darkening at the edges, his sense dulling. His legs wavered and he fell forward, catching himself against the bedpost. Already his vision was narrowing to pinpricks and the only sound he could hear was his own breathing. The bed rose to meet him and he had only a distant impression of its softness as all sensation faded, along with the smell of powder and perfume that made up the Emperor’s quarters.

He was falling. 

Silence was eclipsed by the murmurs of a thousand voices. Vir opened his eyes.

The Imperial bedchamber was gone. Instead he stood in a circular room, like the Centaurum but vast and lit by only a single pillar of light at the center of the floor. Seats rose before him in an endless tower, and in those seats rows of red eyes glinting in the darkness, rings upon rings of them like stars rising into an endless night sky. The Keeper throbbed at his shoulder and he wrinkled his brow, eyelids squeezed tight. None of this was real. His body was in his quarters on Centauri Prime and the Drakh were scattered for light years about the galaxy, not here before him now. But what was real when it came to Shadows and telepaths? They could choose to kill him now and he’d be just as dead.

A clawed hand closed around his upper arm and he jerked as Shiv’Kala swept passed him into the center of the room. Its robes folded about it like wings as it tilted its head back and in its rasping voice addressed the Drakh Entire in a language Vir could not recognize. The strange tongue echoed with staccato of hisses and cracks like crumbling stone. The eyes above shifted, looked down on Vir. 

He thought at first it was his imagination, or part of some madness he really should begin to expect, but a whisper went up from the Drakh and despite the sibilant crackling of their tongue he found he could understand the words.

“ _Who is this one…_

 

_he would speak to the Drakh Entire…_

_…bring him forward…_

_bring him forth…let him speak…_

_silence him…_

_no, let him speak let him speak…_

 

_LET HIM SPEAK.”_

Vir reeled back as the whisper grew to a roar like a crashing tide. Shiv’Kala turned to him slowly, as if turning on an axle, and gestured with one clawed finger for Vir to stand in the middle of the room.

His first step was halting. After so many days of stuttering and cringing, of hiding his thoughts behind the mask of an idiot, it was hard to remember who he was, who he had been. The self he had built piece by piece over council meetings, through wars and disappointments, from smuggling Narns to freedom and facing Refa’s telepath, from stabbing Cartagia to gaining the strength not to do the same to himself. It was learning to leave little Vir behind, the disappointment to his family that had been banished to almost certain death on a station far away. It was looking out into the council chamber when he returned to Babylon 5 from Londo’s coronation, to a sea of faces that had voted for Centauri Prime to pay reparations even while it lay in smoking ruins. It was continuing to speak for his people, even through months of silence, through threats and curses, to hearing nothing from his government except bile against the Alliance, and nothing from his friend except vague threats and half-truths, never why he shut Vir out.

It was learning about Londo, and the Drakh, and the threat to his world and saying _take me instead_.

He raised his head.

“I am Emperor Vir Cotto the First of the Centauri Republic, and I would speak to the Drakh Entire.”

A hush fell over the room, the sound of millions of creatures growing still. 

He wished in that moment for Londo’s confidence, or G’Kar’s skill at oratory, Delenn’s calm collection. He wished… well, he might wish for a great number of things, but at the end he would still be just Vir Cotto, and he had a job to do. 

“Your plans for Centauri Prime will fail.” 

His words echoed like a tolling bell in the silence. “It has already begun. The people you are trying to control will find ways to outmaneuver you. They will track you down and drive you off the planet. Everything you’ve worked for and everything you’ve built will be destroyed.” They were the words of comfort he whispered to himself every night, and they ran through him like iron, straightening his back and strengthening his voice.

The thoughts he could not say were building at the back of his mind and throat, waiting to be released. The Keeper twitched at his shoulder. It too wanted to know, but it could not squeeze out what was not yet there. 

“No matter how many resources we put into developing new weapons it will never be enough to keep up with the Alliance. Our ships are new, yes, developed while you ruled over Londo, and the Regent, and when the Shadows controlled Cartagia,” he could not keep the anger from his voice, “but even with your technology, they will not be enough. The Alliance is making new designs every day. They have hundreds of worlds, billions of people from every civilization working together. Even now they’re outfitting Alliance members with White Star technology, technology that was taught by the _Vorlons_.” An angry hiss went up from the crowd, building like a thunderstorm, but Vir ignored it. “You are outnumbered!” he shouted over the din. “You are outclassed!” The hiss grew into a roar. “And you will be defeated!”

The Keeper dug into his shoulder, and Vir bit back a scream as a sensation burned through him like acid poured into his veins. His knees buckled and his hand flew to his throat, stopping just inches from the creature. Shiv’Kala was glaring at him as the roar grew to an earsplitting cacophony, like the sound of an approaching tornado.

He was losing them.

Vir wrenched his hand away from his throat and pointed to the center of the crowd. He gathered himself, and simply told the truth.

“The Alliance is vulnerable. I know, because I was there. They fight each other every day over stupid, meaningless things. They’re too wrapped up in themselves to care about anyone else, and it’s all Sheridan and Delenn can do to keep them from going to war with each other.” Slowly, the storm began to die as one by one Vir felt the chill of each Drakh’s eyes as they turned back to him, considering.  “There’s nothing to keep them together anymore. If they fall apart it will be soon, while everyone is too busy looking out for themselves to work together. But this won’t last forever.”

“Every year we pay them reparations is a year we are weaker, and every year they get stronger. The longer we wait, the stronger the Alliance will become, and the further we will fall behind. Someday, the Drakh technology will not be enough.” Vir’s eyes scanned the crowd. “My people are already angry at the Alliance. Continuing to pay the Alliance reparations won’t make them any angrier. Now the drain on our resources is just that, a drain. Even if we channel every credit to our military it will never be enough to take on the entire Alliance.”

Vir blinked and saw it, all of it, and it took his breath away. All the pieces that had floated, unconnected in his subconscious, little grains of sand building up until they formed an island just out of the corner of his vision. And finally, now, he looked and saw it laid out in all its glory. The Keeper at his shoulder stilled, and Shiv’Kala whipped towards him, ember eyes growing wide then narrowing with anger. 

“We must declare war on the Alliance. Now, and on our own terms! An official declaration will bind the Alliance to the rules of engagement. Civilian targets will be left alone, while we strike into their heart. We could take back dozens of former colonies before they even knew we were there. It will take months of debate before they will be able to field any kind of army. You will have your revenge.”

Vir stopped. He was panting as if he had run a race, all the words streaming out before Shiv’Kala could stop him. Even now Shiv’Kala drawing towards him, moving across the floor like a shadow. 

Vir opened his mouth to continue when Shiv’Kala struck, a single clawed hand catching Vir at the throat, and _lifted_ him from the ground. Vir gasped, flailed, his fingernails tearing at the dark hide as the ember eyes burned into him.

“ _You!_ You think I cannot see what you are planning? Your thoughts are open to me.” Vir screamed as the Keeper flexed its tendrils, like hot wires being plunged into his brain. His legs kicked, finding no purchase, though he knew he was lying in his bed, knew he should be able to _wake up_. 

“You thought you could trick us, little Centauri? I know your mind. You hoped that a war would bring the Alliance here. They will come with their ships, and their scanners, and their telepaths. You thought they would find us, and when they do they will know the truth of our presence here.” Shiv’Kala lips drew back from sharp teeth like chips of stone. “We will not play your game. The Drakh have been patient before. We will wait. We will grow stronger, and when we strike it will be—”

Shiv’Kala stopped. The claws at Vir’s throat loosened and he dropped to the ground, his knees collapsing beneath him as he landed, driving him to all fours. Shiv’Kala was not looking at him, but rather up at the crowd, his slender form like a black obelisk within the pillar of light.

The room had gone silent.

Then the whispers began. Like a crack racing through crumbling stone, the hissing and clacking spread through the ranks of Drakh, and grew to a roar. Shiv’Kala’s head tilted back, his eyes following the sound. His cragged lips parted. Then he turned to Vir, alien features twisted with what could only be fury. He turned to Vir and his clawed hand made an imperious, slicing motion through the air. The Keeper at his throat pulsed, and Vir gave a strangled cry as the floor dropped out from beneath him and he was falling. Shiv’Kala, the room, and the towers of glittering red eyes vanished, until there was nothing but rushing blackness and the howl of wind.

Vir’s jerked upright in the bed, his entire body spasming as if to catch him from the fall. He was still dressed from head to toe in white, and cold sweat chilled on his skin. His head throbbed, and the Keeper burned on his shoulder, sending out little pulses of pain like a pinched nerve. His hearts thundered in his chest and he winced as light jabbed his eyes. After a moment the terror and dizziness passed.

It was morning.

Vir started up, dashing from the bed and throwing open the door to the Imperial chamber. The halls were empty except for a few sleepy eyed servants and the two guards flanking his door.  It was just past dawn. How long had he been unconscious, speaking in that strange in-between world of the Drakh Entire? What had happened there? His hearts were beginning to calm and he placed a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and closed the door, turning back into the room.

"You have made a grave mistake, little Centauri," Shiv’Kala said. 

Vir recoiled, stumbling back against the door. Shiv’Kala’s black robes swept the floor as the Drakh took a step toward him, blotting out the light from the window like an eclipse.

Panic twisted Vir’s gut but somehow he managed to keep his expression still, or perhaps his face was too numb with terror to betray him. “The Drakh Entire has rejected my proposal?”

Shiv’Kala’s mouth tightened. “The Drakh Entire is of one will. No single voice may drown out the greater hive. You are an outsider, and our slave. You have convinced them of nothing.”

The words hit Vir like a hammer blow, and his carefully gathered courage shuddered. So much had been riding on that, and yet it was poorly planned, poorly executed. Stupid, stupid, how could he have hoped to accomplish anything with a plan he couldn’t even think of? Londo had been right, there was no choice but to wait them out and hope someone else came to save them all. He had damned his planet in the first week, millions would die, billions, how could he have been so stupidly reckless, how could he—

“Of our own will the Drakh Entire has decided: the Centauri have our permission to go to war. 

Vir gaped. He could not prevent it if he tried. Shiv’Kala was looking at him with undisguised loathing. Shiv’Kala continued. “You will fight on our behalf, as our disguise and our shield. You will make the declaration today, and you will not disappoint us.” 

“No… no of course not,” Vir said, dazed. But they knew, surely they had to know. They read every thought in his head! They had no hope of winning a war against the Alliance before the remaining ten years was up. The Alliance would send spies, telepaths, every weapon at their disposal to learn the terrain. They would not invade the planet without scanning the surface, and when they did they could not help but find the fusion bombs.

“You underestimate us,” Shiv’Kala said. “We still possess the art and weapons of our masters. The Alliance will know our vengeance. They will fall.”

“Right, of course,” Vir said. Perhaps the connection was still there. He could see lack of conviction in Shiv’Kala’s voice, the hard edge of an envoy unhappy with his message.

“Your people will fall with ours, little Centauri, and do not forget the weapons already here. Go now, prepare yourself. We will be watching.” Shiv’Kala spared him one last look before walking to a corner of the room where the shadows of the bedpost were black on the wall. Vir blinked, his eyes crossing as tried to follow Shiv’Kala from one movement to the next. The Drakh stepped into the shadow as if it were a door, its black robes melding into the corner, and was gone.

Vir washed and dressed in a sort of strange haze. On the one hand, he could see it all now; the plan, and it brought the world into such a fine detail of focus that he fancied he could make out every grain in the intricate woodwork of the furniture. On the other it was so vast, so beyond his control once it started it seemed his view of the world was fuzzy at the edges, as if he could not take in everything at once. A sort of tunnel vision enveloped him as he washed and dressed, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eye. He caught his own reflection in the mirror as he headed to the door. The Imperial white washed all color from his face, leaving his eyes as dark hollows. Was it his imagination, or were the faint touches of gray at his temple already more pronounced? The Imperial seal dragged at his neck and for once it felt heavier than the Keeper. The creature was like a knife at his throat, eye glittering like a blade, capable of killing him with a thought. But a knife was nothing compared to the millstone around his neck in the form of his seal of office. It carried with it the billions of lives under his protect, and what could the Keeper possibly threaten that compared to that?

A war. Great Maker, he was going to start a war. Thousands, if not millions would die, and that was if he succeeded. Billions if he failed. The collar of his shirt was creased at the edge and he reached to straighten it, only then noticing his hands were shaking.

Two guards stood outside the Imperial chambers and they snapped to attention when Vir poked his head out the second time. He did not recognize one, there were too many guards for him to learn every name, but the second one was Darro. Vir remembered him as the guard with the broken nose. He cleared his throat and said, “I need you to send a message to Prime Minister Durla.” The guards snapped to attention, as if the mention of their former captain was of far more note than the presence of the Emperor. It probably was. 

“Yes, Majesty? And what message should I bring?” said Darro.

“Tell him to see me in the Imperial offices as soon as he receives the message. Tell him…” It swept over Vir then, the magnitude of it. His mouth went dry and he closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. “Never mind, I’ll tell him myself.”

Darro nodded and turned to leave but Vir stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, turning him back. “One more thing.” 

“Your Majesty?” said Darro, his brow crinkling with confusion.

“Before you see the Prime Minister, I need you to take one more message. Go to Timov, the dowager Empress, tell her…” Vir opened his eyes, but when he spoke it was in a whisper, if the air itself was being crushed from his lungs.

“Tell her I’m sorry.”


	7. Londo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Londo wakes up in a familiar place.

It spoke to the nature of Londo’s life that he did not have to open his eyes to know he was waking up in medlab. The stiff, narrow cot, the obnoxious beep and whirr of medical machinery, ah , it was like coming home. It was also testament to his too-frequent visits that he felt remarkably rested, unusually so. Perhaps he was growing used to the plank of wood that was their excuse for a bed? Now there was a depressing thought.

He grimaced and cracked an eye open cautiously. When the glare of the ceiling lights did not drive an answering stab of pain through his skull he opened the other. As a decorated veteran of many a hangover it always paid to be careful about these things. Yes, it was indeed medlab. Same blinking instruments, same wretched décor, if it could be called that. A white curtain had been drawn around his bed, but he could see the silhouettes of the medical staff as they passed. Best not to call attention to himself just yet, if Franklin was on duty he’d no doubt force Londo to down some truly horrific concoction and eat whatever form of torture they were currently serving as “food”. He moved to push himself up in the bed and only then caught sight of the I.V. bandaged to the back of his hand. It was connected to a bag of fluid hanging by the side of the bed.

Londo blinked. Often as he woke up in medlab (too often. _Go to Babylon 5,_ they said, _it’ll be good for your career_ they said. Bah.) he normally didn’t do so being pumped full of fluids unless it was truly serious. He propped himself up more carefully, mindful of the long tube trailing from his hand, and looked around. A glass sat by the bedside. Water, of course, but his mouth was dry and tasted vaguely of two-week old socks so he downed half of it, though he made a face in protest as he did so.  Franklin would no doubt tell him to anyway, and the sooner he could convince that tyrant he had recovered from whatever unfortunate business had taken place, the sooner he could have some real food and change out of whatever hideous hospital gown they had stuffed him into this time. With luck he could avoid a meal in medlab entirely, which was always something to celebrate. If he could he make it out unseen and with some of his dignity intact he might declare a complete victory, but that was no doubt too much to ask. If it had indeed been a truly legendary night of drinking that brought him here rather than oh, say, another of the numerous attempts on his life, then the details would already be common knowledge on the station. Vir would know, or perhaps G’Kar. He must remember to ask.

Still, something was nagging at the back of his mind, plucking at his consciousness with the irritating persistence of an itch. Something about being on Babylon 5, as if that would somehow be unusual. He replaced the glass on the bedside table, his gaze lingering on the sleeve of the hospital gown as he did so. He frowned. It was the usual cheap fabric, the same texture as the sheets and pillowcases. Bleached as it was by many washings, the cloth it was a flat, faded white, an improvement over their usual putrid green. The color was familiar on his arm nonetheless, strangely so, even if the material was wrong. He pressed two fingers to his temple,  as if he could massage away the sense of unease, of something forgotten.

Vir…

“Ah, yes,” he said, and fell back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

It wasn’t just the material of the robe. All of this was wrong. He shouldn’t be here, on Babylon 5, the Drakh would never allow him to return without their permission. It was all trickling back to him now, as if the color of the fabric had begun an avalanche.

Vir, Shiv’Kala, the Drakh, of course. He remembered those last panicked minutes when he tried to make a run for it, Darro’s blood-stained teeth as he said…something, about the transport to Babylon 5.

It was no wonder he felt rested, being on Babylon 5 meant at least two days had past. He hadn’t been unconscious for so long since his heart attack, under equally relaxing circumstances. Still, something was not right, even with some concocted tale about his retirement he should be swarmed with attendants. _Retired_ , he snorted at the thought, _as if Centauri Emperors retired_. The only way to remove oneself from that seat was in a body bag. Always natural causes of course, considering how poison was considered a natural causes among the highest echelons of the Centauri court.

There was no question: he should not be alive, and had not expected to be from the moment Shiv’Kala’s hand closed over his vision. A chill trickled down his spine at the memory. Was Vir’s bargain responsible for this? Hard to believe that the Drakh would let him go. Vir always had been too naïve in such matters, but then if there was anything the Shadows and their servants were known for it was keeping their bargains.

Vir. Gods, if two days had past and he was on Babylon 5 there was no telling what state the boy was in. He would need to find a comm channel back to Centauri Prime, if he could even get through. He of all people knew how hard it was to get through to contact anyone in the palace.

Londo studied the I.V. in his arms, debating whether it looked too important to rip out, when the curtain around his hospital room opened with a swish.

“Your Majesty?” There was a clatter of plastic and silverware. Londo looked up from his contemplation of the I.V. to see a young Centauri woman standing beside his bed. Her mouth was open, and at her feet were the ruins of something that was no doubt as inoffensive to the stomach as it was tasteless, as well as a splatter of that green gloop the Humans called “jello”.

Londo stared back, a spark of recognition firing at the back of his mind. He groped for a name. The tail of the woman’s light brown hair was pulled back into a loose braid, with strands escaping in a frizz that only added to her bewildered expression. Her face, pale and haggard though it was, tickling a memory of a petite form hunched over a scroll, surely going blind amongst the dusty shelves of the Imperial archives, and smiling wanly over late-night jala. “Miss Cantori?”

“I just… went out to get something to eat…” Aela said, pointing vaguely over her shoulder. “I was only going to be gone for a minute. I’m sorry. I should have been here.”

Londo waved a hand dismissively. “Miss Cantori, I do not even know _why_ you are here, so let me assure you I hold no grudge at your absence. I certainly don’t blame you for getting something to eat, even if I might pity your choice of cuisine.”

“It’s just I’ve been waiting for days and I leave for five minutes and of course that’s when you wake up,” Aela said helplessly. “Your Majesty, a lot has happened while you were unconscious.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to realize that. But, if the world is still spinning after two whole days I’m sure another fifteen minutes will not matter. Get yourself more of…whatever that was,” he gave the fallen tray a look of distaste and sighed, “and you might as well get me one as well. Then you can fill me in on what has happened.”

Aela nodded but shifted from one foot the other, crossing her arms in front of her as said, “Of course. But, your Majesty, it’s been more than two days.”

Londo stilled, and the first cold drops of apprehension trickled down his spine as he asked, “How long?”

Aela bit her lip. “A week.”

“ _A week?_ ” A cough tore through Londo and he doubled over, hacking until he thought he would turn inside out. Aela scrambled and passed him the half-finished glass of water. He had not realized how dry his throat was but after a week (Great Maker, a _week_?) it was no wonder he was parched. When storm of coughing finally passed, he managed to wheeze. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know!” Aela said. “Nobody knew! The doctor on the transport said there was nothing wrong with you, and the one here said the same thing. And then the telepath…”

“A telepath?” The chill of fear became a flood. “That was… ill-advised,” Londo said, his voice hoarse. He coughed to clear it, recovered his façade of good humored irritation. “There are things in my head that would best not see the light of day, child.” A cold sweat prickled at his forehead. State secrets were only the beginning. The four _lidari,_ the white-veiled telepaths that served Emperor, were forbidden from his side. Once he had thought to sneak other telepaths in, to look the other way and hope the message would fly without his guidance. That was the first death. There were many more before the last of the telepaths vanished from the capital.

Aela shook her head. “It was a Human telepath, and she were only authorized to do a diagnostic, not a deep scan. She said there was no signs of tampering in your mind. As far as she could tell you were only sleeping.”

Relief, but he was no longer one to believe good news on the first telling. “There was nothing else? Nothing… strange?” Londo said cautiously.

Aela shook her head. “Only dreams.”

Londo released a breath, but the fear draining away only made room for confusion. Nothing? Not even the memory of Shiv’Kala’s clawed hand as it closed around his face? Then again, why interpret a creature from nightmare as anything more than the product of fever dreams? He dismissed the thought. There were more pressing matters. “Well, there’s nothing for it now. You might as well dispense with the formalities, my dear, otherwise we’ll lose another month to ceremony. I imagine in any case the title no longer applies, yes?” Aela shook her head and looked down. Color stained her cheeks, anger rather than embarrassment if he was any judge. “I thought as much. No, there’s no use in being angry about it now. Go, and once you’re back we will go through it all line by line, hmm? I’ve learned there’s very little point worrying about anything until all the facts are on the table.” Aela nodded reluctantly and ducked out of the curtain.

In a few minutes Aela had fetched them a second pair of trays and settled into a rather uncomfortable looking plastic chair beside the bed. The food, some pasty mixture of chicken and rice that was bland enough to be tolerated by a vast array of alien physiologies, was offset by jello so green it looked positively radioactive. Londo regarded the tray with some suspicion, not sure if he was more depressed by the contents or the fact he might actually be hungry enough to eat them. Aela was digging into her own with the neutral expression of many day’s practice, which reminded him: “While I find the devotion admirable, you never did tell me why you remained by my side this whole time. Surely you have a room somewhere here, on the station? Dr. Franklin would have sent for you once I was awake.”

Aela shook her head and swallowed. “We had quarters assigned by the government for the next three months, but considering the circumstances… Well, I may be new to all of this, but being where they expect doesn’t seem conducive to a long and healthy life. And what safer place than the medlab when sprouting a knife in the back?” She said the last with a wan smile, but it faded in short order as she continued. “I don’t know who Dr. Franklin is, Dr. Hobbs is the chief medical officer, and she said she’ll need you out of here later today if you’re well enough to go, they’re always short on beds. But I’m not sure what to do if we don’t take the quarters offered by the government, or what we’ll do when the three months is up. I’ve been looking into a job, but there’s not much for an archivist on a space station. I’ve heard there are monks…”

“Never mind that,” Londo said, waving a hand to dismiss her words as if they were smoke clouding the air. Franklin, gone? Why hadn’t he heard of this? Where had the man gone _to_? He considered the question, lost in thoughts of that annoying but at times very useful man, only to see Aela had finally lost enough deference to glare at him.

“ _Never mind_ that? Your Maj—Londo, I’m not sure you know this but Babylon 5 is extremely expensive, and we’ve been banned from all Centauri territory. I lost all my money, and even worse my _research_. How we survive here is something I do mind, very much!” Her jaw clenched and her eyes glistened with what could be unshed tears. If not for her obvious distress Londo might have laughed.

“My dear, one does not become Emperor without becoming very good at, shall we say, resource management? Politics can be a fickle mistress, there’s no telling when one will need to make a quick exit.” His grin sharpened as understanding dawned on Aela’s feature. “Even my wives would not be able to find all the accounts I have hidden away, though they would have very much liked to. And yes, several of them tie back here. As I said before _, never mind_ about funds, we have quite enough on our plate as it is.” At the reminder, he glanced back at his plate. All that remained was the rather questionable jello, taunting him. His stomach growled.

“But are you sure there will be enough?” Aela said.

“In my day, 10,000 credits was a rather modest bribe for a few minutes of the Prime Minister’s time, simply on the _hope_ that he would hear your case, so yes I think we will manage.  But just to put your fears to rest, here,” Londo took a pen and pad from the table beside the bed and scrawled a number on it. No time for a proper code of any kind should it fall in the wrong hands, writing out the numbers in the Old Centauri alphabet would have to do. He could see by the way Aela’s brows drew together that she recognized the script. Ah, Old Centauri, useful for showing off at cocktail parties and for quickly hiding communications from all but the most educated courtiers and aliens. “That is the account number for one of the accounts I based here. More than enough to finance several years in a pleasure dome, let alone on this rusted can. Take it, it’s yours. Later I want you to find us another room and proper supplies. I’d add a bodyguard too, but I’ve found I end up protecting them most of the time.”

Aela was staring at the folded scrap of paper in astonishment. “You trust me with this?”

“If I cannot trust you, then there’s not much good the account will do me anyway, hmm?” Aela eyes widened but she folded the slip of paper into her hand nonetheless. “Now,” Londo continued, “Tell me, from the beginning, what you saw.”

Aela nodded and began to speak, haltingly at first, giving a garbled account of being dragged from her room with no time to pack and barely to dress, then forced at gunpoint onto a shuttle with his unconscious body and no explanation. A two day flight to Babylon 5, where she had not known if every visit by the guard brought relief or death. Once on the station she had followed him to medlab, using their new IDs to stay by his side as his granddaughter.

“Granddaughter? Fah, I can’t possibly be that much older than you,” Londo scoffed.

Aela shrugged, but small smile played the corner of her lips. “Just playing along, your Majesty.”

Londo grumbled on behalf of injured pride, but waved for Aela to continue. She spread her hands. “That is all that happened. But the reason? That is a bit more complex, and though I have my guesses…” Aela looked down. “I’m afraid if I am correct, the news will be very painful to you.”

“Then I will have to manage,” Londo said. He leaned forward and pressed his fingers to his lips. “Continue.”

“Before our exile, I had reason to believe there was something…very wrong in the palace, something that centered around you. When I dug further I discovered a word…one I have been told never to speak, or millions could die.”

Londo knew without guessing what it might be. _Drakh_. It would explain how Vir had come up with the name seemingly from thin air. Yet something felt off. _He_ felt off. Perhaps it was the jello, which he had forced down while Aela spoke, trying his best not to think about it. It was as bad as he feared, reminiscent of some of the more questionable cocktails he had tasted, in this case when they had come up the other way.  In any case, he felt strangely disconnected, tired. He shook his head to clear it. “There’s no need to repeat it, I believe I have as good a sense as you for what it is. So, you learned this…word. Then what?”

“There was no way to act upon it, no one I could trust except… Ambassador Cotto.” The anger was back, sharpening her expression and her words. “I was fool to do so. He is Emperor now, I can only assume the word was his signal to seize the throne. I am sorry, your Majesty.”

Londo did not correct her slip in using his title. He had no heart to, her face was a picture of misery, and whether vice or virtue (both seemed to get him in trouble with equal frequency) he never had many defenses against a woman in distress. “There, there, my dear.” Londo patting her hand absently. “Even if that were the case, it is not your fault.”

“I should have known Cotto was one of them!” Aela said. “How could I have been so stupid? I never should have trusted him, I never should have trusted anyone. If only I had come to you instead…”

“Then you would have died before you finished your sentence,” Londo snapped. “Were your actions reckless? Yes. Foolish? _Staggeringly_ so. But if you’re going to do something reckless and foolish then you could not have picked a better partner.”

Aela sniffled and pulled back, her brow furrowed. “He betrayed you.”

“ _Vir_?” Londo gave a startled laugh. “He does not know the meaning of the word.”

“He took your throne and then exiled you!”

“And need I point out that we are still alive? How often do you think the Emperor survives a palace coup, hmm? Come now, you’re the historian, tell me.”

Aela’s lips drew to a thin line as she thought. After a moment she shook her head. “A few, but none that were successful.”

“Then trust me when I say Vir is the least of your concerns right now.” _And the greatest of mine_.

“But that is not all he’s done,” Aela pressed. “He told the people you are dead. Assassinated, by the Alliance. Millions are rioting.”

“Only politics,” Londo said flippantly. Sometimes leadership was just appearing calm enough to keep others from panicking as well. But, _dead_? This did complicate matters. “Trust me, the last thing anyone wants is a deposed Emperor as a rallying point for malcontents. No, I’m sure Vir knew what he was doing.”

Just as sure as he knew it was not Vir, who lacked the cunning to consider such a route. Even worse, the first day after receiving a Keeper was like a bout of the flu, Vir would have been nearly delirious, barely capable of complex thought let alone political maneuvering. No, this reeked of Durla. The man never had understood the pulse of the people. Like many who knew only the later years of Turhan and Cartagia, Durla had little respect for the throne, seeing it only as a prize to be won. He could never understand that for those who had known Turhan’s father, who kept to the old ways, the Emperor _was_ the soul of the people. A depressing thought when one considered the latest examples of the office.

“Miss Cantori,” Londo continued. “I said this could wait, but we have less time than I thought. Take the account and once you have the credits go to these shops.” He took back the paper and scrawled the name of several shops as well as a rudimentary map of the station. “I have a very important call, and I’m not going to make it dressed as a recent escapee from a lunatic asylum. I’m sure there’s quite enough about me to complete the image as it is. Then I need you back here within the hour.”

Aela took the list, eyebrows climbing her forehead as she read it. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to—”

“Good, now get going. There’s no time to waste!” Aela stood automatically, but was still staring at the list. Her eyebrows rose higher. “And while you’re out, get something nice for yourself, yes?”

“But—”

“Go!” Londo said, making a shooing motion. Aela squeaked and ducked out the curtain.

Once she was gone, Londo settled back against the bed. The beep and whirr of the monitors were pinpricks of sound against the background hum of medlab.

His hand crept to his shoulder, fingertips hovering over the empty space there, tracing the worn collar of the hospital gown. Even to come so close sent a thrill of vertigo through him, a sense of disconnection from his own body. The Keeper had always been quick, overpowering muscles and pouring fire into nerves if it sensed any intention to touch its hiding place. As if he had needed the reminder. Ripping it off had only bought him a few hour's autonomy, the impudence paid for with blood. He winced, a reflex of remembered pain, his brow smoothing when it did not come. With a defiant grimace he closed his hand over his shoulder.

Nothing. As if the past five years had been only a nightmare. After a moment he took a deep breath, far shakier than he would ever admit, and probed beneath the collar. The skin was unbroken, with not even a scab to say the parasite had ever been. A shiver wracked him crown to toe and he released a harsh breath. Relief, sharp, sweet…hysterical… rose in his throat, choked him. He closed his eyes and held his breath against it. There was no time for it now. Vir had clasped his wrists in farewell, taking all certainty with him. No, no time for this either. He pushed the thought away.  If his hand trembled as it clutched at the empty spot at his throat, it was only so he could be certain nothing lingered beneath the skin, and if moisture escaped as he opened his eyes it was only because the hospital lights were far too bright.

There was no time to mourn. If Aela believed Vir was responsible for his overthrow then there would be others as well. He freed his hand from his shoulder and pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. The announcement of his death would only complicate matters, just as Durla intended. It wouldn’t matter if he was seen on the station, with so many rumors already flying and the government stranglehold on information, the Centauri would not know what to believe, but whatever they did it certainly wouldn’t be the Alliance’s version. Sheridan and Delenn may have washed their hands of Centauri internal politics, but they would need to know some version of the truth, if only to be reminded that Vir was no assassin. Great Maker knew what story he’d need to craft to explain everything while telling nothing, but then the Drakh never had cared what excuse he made as long it kept their secret…

His hand fell from his face and he stared forward, unseeing. Then a slow, sharp smile tugged at the corner of his lips, widening to reveal sharper canines in a wide, incredulous grin. Londo Mollari gave a short, startled laugh.

Then he began to plan.

Aela found him like that just over an hour later, cursing under his breath as he tried to make some notes fit onto the paltry notepad that had been left by the bedside. He held one of the pieces up triumphantly as he approached. “Ah, Miss Cantori, and not a minute too soon. I trust you were able to find everything?”

The wild look had not left Aela’s eyes from when she departed, if anything she looked more frazzled as she juggled an armload of boxes that threatened to overbalance her. “Some of the shops have since closed,” she gasped. She deposited the unwieldy tower on the floor with a clatter. “The others were on opposite ends of the station from each other. I’m going to assume you didn’t know that.”

“I was on this station six years, of course I knew—”

“For _both_ of our sakes,” Aela finished.

Londo’s eyebrows rose but after a moment facing down a very red faced, out-of-breath Aela he turned his attention to the mound of boxes. “Ah,” he said, dropping the notes and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “What did you find?”

Aela glared for a moment longer then relented, picking up the top of the boxes. “I thought we’d need to keep a low profile for awhile, so I tried to keep it simple. Unfortunately, none of the measurements were quite right, but it should do for now,” she said, opening the first box to reveal an array of simple browns coats, vests, and plain white tunics. Merchant colors, unlikely to draw attention. “The tailor you listed only had one item with your exact measurements. It’s far too flashy, garish really, but,” she shrugged, “since money wasn’t an object, I took it.”

Londo nodded absently as he flipped through the layers of clothing, when a thought occurred to him and he looked up, puzzled. “I never told you my measurements.”

“About that…” Aela said, and had somehow managed to flush to the tips of her ears. “I realized that in the first shop. Luckily it seems the, uh, Humans have some strange interests.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Their tabloids are, umm, surprisingly well informed,” Aela, turning one of the box lids over in her hand, her gaze fixed on it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. “I’m not sure why Humans are interested in which galaxy leader has the best “beach body”, but—”

“Never mind, I think I already understand. Far too well.”

“Entil’Zha Delenn was the winner, if it’s any consolation.”

“At least they have some taste. Do I dare ask where I ranked?”

“You’re probably better off not knowing,” Aela said, and ducked down to open one of the boxes from the bottom of the pile. “This is the one that would fit, at least until we can have the others modified. Like I said, it’s terribly ugly, but you only need to wear it until we get to the room.” She removed a folded coat from the tissue and presented it to him.

Perhaps the universe really was laughing at him, Londo thought as he took the coat. Purple. It would have to be purple. Even before he slipped it on he knew it would fit like a glove. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation, if it was indeed from his old tailor it could very well have been made for him and simply left to gather dust at the back of the shop when he did not come to collect it. He was no seer to tell coincidence from omen, and omens had done him little good of late.

“One of you will be Emperor, after the other is dead,” he murmured.

“What was that?” Aela said, looking up from the boxes.

“She said,  ‘one of you will be Emperor, after the other is dead.’ I thought I knew what it meant,” Londo said. The purple fabric of the coat covered the white hospital gown to the wrist. How long since he had looked down and seen anything but white?

Aela must have sensed the change in his mood. She replaced the lid on the box and settled into the chair beside the bed, leaning over with her hands in her lap. “Even when prophecy comes true it is rarely in the way we expect, and even true seers misinterpret what they see. Emperor Tuscano’s seer told him if he went to war with the Xon a great empire would fall, but would it be his or the Xon? The seer could not say, and in the end he made the prophecy his own. It could just as easily have gone the other way, and the seer would still have been right.” Aela shrugged. “Or, after all these years, who’s to say she wasn’t a fraud? Of course it is against our tradition to say so. Regardless, if Tuscano had not fought, the Xon Empire would not have fallen. Our people would have been destroyed and the Republic would never have been born. In the end, I believe history shows we make our own prophecy.”

“No,” Londo said, shaking his head. “No, she saw true. She knew I would be Emperor long before I became Prime Minister.”

“So this woman, this seer,” Aela said. “Said that you would be Emperor and that someone else would be Emperor after you died. Is that…Vir Cotto?”

Londo nodded, lost in thought. Again that sick feeling opened in his stomach, that they were hurtling off course through and unfamiliar and uncaring reality. Once he had laughed at the thought Vir would be Emperor, but some days these past years it was the thought that kept him from despair. All gone now, all wasted because the fool boy had developed a martyr complex. He must have learned it from Sheridan, Londo never should have left him alone on the station for so long. Perhaps if he had found Vir a wife, they were useful for eating up one’s time and money, though perhaps not at curbing thoughts of suicide.

“So it came true.”

“What?” Londo said, rousing. Aela leaned forward in her seat and was staring at him.

“The prophecy came true. Vir Cotto is now Emperor and, as far as anyone back home is concerned, you’re dead.”

“No, that’s not what she-” Londo stopped, straightened. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. She said these visions were changeable, that some actions could prevent them… So I may still be on target.”

“On target?”

“For my appointment. Which means there is still hope. Now, I need you to find someone to have these sent to our quarters—not just yet!” He rummaged through the boxes and dug out a crisp white shirt, a vest, and trousers, while Aela pulled out a pair of boots from somewhere near the bottom. “Right, have what’s leftover sent to our quarters and meet me back here in ten minutes, _with_ the doctor! We have a great deal to do and not much time to do it.”

“Your Maj—Londo, are you sure this is wise? We’re probably being watched, we should keep a low profile.”

“That, my dear, is exactly what they expect of us, and is exactly why we are going to do the opposite.” Londo said, and graced her with a smile that would not look out of place on a very large, very hungry shark.

* * *

With the speed at which Hobbs had discharged him, you would think she was _eager_ to be rid of him. Bah, she could not possibly want him out more than he wanted to _be_ out. His feet found the path through the winding halls of the station with hardly any of his brain’s participation. Just as well, as he had other matters on his mind.

Aela trotted up behind him. “You- please, you have to slow down. You just left the hospital. And—” Aela dodged the crowds that swarmed around him. She was practically jogging to keep up with his ground-devouring stride. She bent in at ear level as she caught up and hissed. “We’re going to attract too much attention.”

“As if anyone would be looking at an old Centauri and his _granddaughter_ ,” Londo said. Aela had the grace to look bashful, at least until she began to fall behind again. It was true, while purple may be a color worn only by the old guard of the Centauri nobility, the brooches and jewels he had once worn were tucked away somewhere in House Mollari. Even the height of his crest, a clear sign to any Centauri of his rank, could easily be mistaken for delusions of grandeur. Overall he would appear quite unremarkable, and he did not like to admit the sense of disquiet he felt as gazes slid off him without a second thought. After all these years, he was unused to disinterest when not a week before every eye was on him whenever he entered a room. It seemed Imperial white had some uses after all, at least when forcing one’s way through a crowd.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” said Aela.

“The Green Sector, dear lady,” Londo said. “To indulge in a little breaking and entering.”

Aela yelped behind him and began to say something before stopping in her tracks, inches from colliding with Londo. They had reached the end of the winding corridors, the bottleneck expanding out into the great bazaar of the station: the Zocalo. He stopped, and he not leaned over to brace himself against the wall he might have been knocked to the ground in the rush that passed them by.

Colored lights blinked and flashed, advertising news, wares and services. Shop stalls lined the avenue that ran through the center of the station, dotted with bars and gambling tables. The elevator for Green Sector lay on the other side of the hubbub but Londo was frozen. His chest tightened as if a great fist was clenched around his hearts.

When he moved again his steps were halting, and he threaded his way through the stalls and tables, his fingers sometimes lightly tracing the back of a chair, or the polished surface of a gaming table. The hum of Interlac, Minbari, Brakiri, Narn, the myriad languages of the station rose around him, and if he listened he could pick out a phrase here, an exclamation there. It flowed around him like a stream and if he stood a bit straighter, if his eyes flashed through a spectrum of delight and sorrow, the bar there where he had his drinks with Mr. Garibaldi, or saw the table he had once called “lucky”, well, it had been a very long time, had it not? But not so long that he missed even a step. He could have made his way to the other side blindfolded. Strange how sharp the memory remained, for all that he had tried not to think about the place.

A touch at his elbow pulled him back from the reverie. “In a moment, Vir, can’t you see I’m busy?” he murmured.

A sharp hiss of breath broke the last tendrils of the spell. He turned to see Aela looking at his with wide, haunted eyes, or perhaps that was only his reflection. “People are beginning to look at us. I think they recognize you.”

They had stopped in front of the Eclipse Café, and a familiar dark head was peering out, wide-eyed, over the heads of the customers. “Ah, that would be Kat, an old friend. As you can see, she works as a bartender on the station. Surprising that she is still here, what with the flight of officers from the station. The woman is an institution.”

“Londo, she looks like she’s seen a ghost,” Aela whispered, nodding towards Kat.

Londo made a noncommittal noise, squinting past the now white-faced bartender. There was something going on with the viewing screens above the bar. A camera sweeping across a vast crowd. For a moment he thought he recognized the domes and colonnades of Centaullus, but the scene changed to a Human woman speaking earnestly as she read off a sheet of paper. There was scrolling text at the bottom of the screen, but he felt another insistent tug at his elbow before he could make it out. “Alright, alright, we’ll go.”

There was at least one positive outcome to his voluntary withdrawal from the station all those years ago, when the situation with the raiders was coming to a head and the first finger leveled at Centauri Prime. Because he had withdrawn voluntarily, he had never been formally banished, and thus his diplomatic status had never been revoked. Nor had Mr. Allan taken the necessary steps to block Londo’s old codes, though perhaps that had something to do with his rapid “promotion”. Revoking station access to the new Centauri Emperor could be seen as something of an insult.

This did not, however, guarantee access to the rooms themselves, Londo realized as he stopped in front of their destination and pressed a finger to his lips as he contemplated the keypad. A dreadful suspicion began to dawn on him.

“What is this place?” Aela said.

“The ambassadorial quarters,” Londo replied without looking at her. Nevertheless he felt her start.

“We can’t go in there, it’s illegal!”

Londo gave her a sidelong look. “Miss Cantori, need I point out the stunningly obvious fact that the ambassador of the station works for me? The Republic pays for these rooms making them, by extension, mine. Perhaps more so now than they ever were before.” He turned back to the keypad and began typing in the first number that came to mind.

“You remember the override code?” Aela said, sounding duly impressed.

Londo sighed. “If only that were the case. No, I’m afraid that would be too much to hope for. What we lack in planning and skill we will have to make up for,” he finished typing. The door hissed open. Londo hung his head. “…In misplaced trust and a bad memory. When this is all over I will have a very serious chat with Vir about changing his code more than once per century.”

“He hasn’t changed his code in five _years_?”

Londo’s expression grew pained. “Worse. He hasn’t changed _my_ code.” He stepped into the room, noting how much had changed since he had last occupied these quarters. His own personal touches now adorned his office back in the palace, and there would be a reckoning of an entirely different sort if the new regime tampered with anything there. The alternative was that Vir would find it and come to the entirely wrong conclusion, which in this case would be the accurate one and therefore embarrassing for everyone.

Vir’s décor was unforgivably basic for a Centauri, showing very little of the homeworld’s flavor. Instead of the rich colors and ornate patterns popular in the court. there were plain walls covered with a veritable gift shop of alien souvenirs, some of which looked rather cheap and all of which were unbefitting of the Centauri ambassador. Of course it was acceptable to keep a few such items on display, certain diplomatic guests would be offended if they learned the sacred statue they had given you at the last Intergalactic Religious Festival, or whatever nonsense pageantry Sheridan was promoting this week, was now being used as paperweight. That didn’t mean you put every single gift on display until they crowded out the living space.

Visible through the door to the bedroom as an unmade bed and clothes scattered across the floor and trailing out of the closet, as if Vir had left packing to the last minute, which he almost certainly had, and then dashed out the door. No one appeared to have entered the quarters since they were last vacated, which of course meant that spies from nearly every single race had tramped through, removed each other’s listening bugs and replaced them with their own. If they even needed to, some of those souvenirs looked rather suspiciously capable of containing electronics, and he despaired that Vir had learned anything of suspicion since the incident with the Drazi. Perhaps there was some benefit after all in the Drakh forcing him to keep Vir in the dark.

Aela entered furtively behind him, closing the door and looking about the room with some bewilderment. “It’s… not what I expected,” she said.

“Hardly the quarters of a political mastermind, yes? I’m afraid to someone like Vir, subterfuge is just a ten letter word starting with ‘s’. You’ll understand my skepticism that he was behind a plot to seize the throne, when hiring a competent decorator seems quite beyond him.”

Aela grimaced. “Or it may be only a clever mask. No one would suspect him, not even you.”

Londo’s grin faded. “No. Vir is exactly what he appears on the surface, and always has been. He is…  uncomplicated, a terrible liar, and devoid of any real ambition or cunning. In short, he is a good man.”

“You’re saying he’s harmless, after everything he did?” Aela said heatedly.

Londo gave her a sharp look. “Haven’t you been listening? I said he is a good man. I cannot think of a single more dangerous force in the universe. If Vir Cotto had truly decided I was the enemy, you and I would not be having this conversation.”

Aela went silent at this, chastened but still looking skeptical. “You never did say why we needed to come here,” she said after a moment.

“We are here,” Londo said, striding to the opposite wall, “because all ambassadorial quarters have one thing in common. A direct, gold channel link to the Alliance President. It’s three in the morning on Minbar, but then he has a small child so he is either awake or will be used to the disturbance. Shall we give him a call?”

Londo didn’t wait for Aela’s response, as she was currently gaping like a fish at the prospect of casually phoning the man who could very well be the most powerful individual in the galaxy. Londo punched in commands for the emergency line, his own eyebrows rising as the comm system responded in a pleasant female voice, “The President is currently out of office. Please hold while you are redirected.”

Static followed. Londo crossed his hands behind his back as he waited, smoothing his expression. Aela took her cue and ducked out of the visual range.

The audio came in first, as Londo heard a crackling but familiar voice say, “Of course I’ll take the damn call, I’ve been waiting all week for an explanation from these people and by God it better be a good one.”

The picture cleared, revealing a very unpleasant looking John Sheridan. A day’s growth of stubble set off the red in his eyes and the scowl on his lips. Londo could almost applaud him as a statesman for finding such a quick and effective way of intimidating his underlings, even if it would not work on Londo. Really, Humans had nothing on the Narn when it came to fearsome early morning visages.

“Ah, Mr. President, so good of you to take my call at this hour,” Londo said genially.

“Now you listen here, you have five seconds to explain to me what the hell is going on with your government before I…Londo?”

Perhaps the screen had taken a moment to clear on Sheridan’s side, or perhaps the man had been too carried away with his prepared tirade to notice whom he was speaking to, but at the sight of Londo he broke off mid-sentence and stared. Londo stared back, allowing the edge of a grin to play on the corner of his lips.

“I take it you were expecting someone a bit less senior, hmm? Well, never let it be said the Centauri don’t show proper respect to our esteemed Alliance colleagues,” Londo said, spreading his hands.

“You’re supposed to be _dead_ ,” Sheridan said.

“So we have something new in common.” When Sheridan’s expression did not change, Londo continued, “As you can see, the rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated, a situation I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“Did you put Vir up to this?” Sheridan said, his expression shifting from stupefied to thunderous.

“Of course not, I was as surprised as you are,” Londo said. “The situation is extremely delicate, which is why I brought this matter to you personally.”

“Delicate? Londo, this situation isn’t delicate, it’s a powder keg!”

“The assassination rumors will be a simple matter to clear,” Londo said, waving dismissively. “There are far more serious issues at hand, which is what I would like to talk to you about.”

“Good, because I could really use some answers from you people right now. This war of Vir’s is the _last_ thing anyone needs. The Narn and Drazi are clamoring for your collective heads, I’m on my way to Babylon 5 right now to try to calm things down.”

“War?” Londo said, his mind going blank.

“You don’t know? The first thing Vir did as Emperor was declare war on the Alliance for our role in assassinating you. Since you’re alive, I’m _real_ interested in knowing what this is all about,” Sheridan said.

“Nonsense, that doesn’t make any…” Londo stopped, belatedly realizing he’d revealed too much of his own ignorance. Sheridan had already seen it though, and even if some of his anger dissipated in the face of Londo’s confusion it could hardly be counted a victory when it did nothing but weaken his position. Londo rallied. “I will look into this. There is no doubt a reasonable explanation, and we can resolve this quickly once you have arrived. What matters more is the reason behind all of this.”

“You have my attention,” Sheridan said dryly, relaxing somewhat. “But Londo, this had better be good.”

Londo took a breath to begin…and stopped. The exhaustion washed over him again, no doubt from the enormity of it all. He knew how it must sound, to explain that his actions for the past five years ago had been a result of blackmail from creatures that had only existed in fairytale. Sheridan and the others would know nothing of the Drakh, why should they believe anything he said? Or worse, what if the transmission were to cut off, or Sheridan ended the call with only part of the story? In that case it might appear the Centauri had invited their captors. It was best not to tell Sheridan anything until they met in person, rather than risk having the situation be misunderstood. “I…” No, this was not the time. “I will tell you when you arrive. It is far too serious for this channel.”

Sheridan frowned and he looked about to protest when his shoulders fell and he dragged a hand across his face before straightening. “Fine. We’ll be arriving first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll talk then. And Londo? I’m going to need you at the council session afterwards. This debacle has gone far enough already. If we don’t stop it now, I can’t guarantee your people’s safety.”

“I understand,” Londo said, his voice strangely hoarse. That nameless fear hovered at the edge of his consciousness, but it eased as Sheridan ended the call and the screen went dark.

“What was that about?” Londo turned to find Aela hovering at his elbow. “I thought you were going to tell him what happened?”

“Later… later, my dear. These things really must be done in person,” Londo said. Suddenly he felt more tired than he had in ages, even after the sleepless nights when the Keeper at his throat and the Drakh in his mind had stolen all rest. “A miscommunication at this moment would be disastrous.”

“Worse than Cotto’s war?” Aela said. The flint had returned to her voice. “Or is this somehow the work of a ‘good man.’”

“There is more to it than that,” Londo replied with a glare. “As I’m sure we’ll find once we get to the bottom of this.

* * *

The room Aela had found for them was simple but serviceable. Two bedrooms adjoining a central sitting room with a kitchen. It was only temporary, a hotel room in essence, until they had the time for more permanent arrangements. With any luck such things would not be necessary after the meeting with Sheridan, but Londo had found that the goddess of luck was playing coy with him lately.

Once they had settled it was not so difficult to find the news of Vir’s declaration of war. It would have been much harder to avoid it, every race and its respective approximation of Earther 24-hour news was abuzz.

“We cannot tolerate further insults to our people or our government,” Vir said from the screen. He stood on the balcony of the summer palace in Centaullus, addressing a crowded square. The scrolling text at the bottom of the screen said that just over one million Centauri had participated in the riots following Emperor Mollari’s assassination. It might have been flattering under different circumstances. “Which is why it is with a heavy heart that I announce that, as of today, the Centauri Republic is officially at war.”

Londo leaned forward in the armchair, pressing his clasped hands to his mouth as he studied Vir’s face. Durla loomed behind Vir’s left shoulder, and the Imperial white gave the younger man a washed out appearance, exhausted and worn. The Keeper was invisible, but of course it would be, no machine Londo knew of had any luck capturing the creature’s presence.

“He looks determined,” Aela remarked, taking a seat on the couch beside him. She held a steaming cup of jala in her hand and offered him a second one, which he accepted without taking his eyes from the screen. She was right, actually. Sweat was visible on Vir’s forehead, an unfortunate but familiar byproduct of the heavy Imperial regalia, but there was no other signs of distress. He spoke each word firmly, looking out to the crowd with dignity that once, long ago, Londo would not have thought him capable of. It was of course possible that it was the Keeper’s doing as he puppeteered Vir through the motions of state, but that too made little sense. They could have just as easily compelled Londo to declare war had they wished to, why wait until now? He had delivered their damned vase, signed the orders for military bases and arms buildup over the next decade. Whatever they had been planning, it awaited the sixteenth birthday of Sheridan’s son. Something had changed; he just needed to find out _what_.

“Still certain that he’s not to blame?” said Aela with a sidelong glance.

“No, no there is something more to this, I can feel it,” Londo muttered, rewinding the clip again to the beginning of the speech. Vir emerged onto the balcony, showing only the faintest tremor at what was no doubt the overwhelming sea of faces before him. It could be a shock to even the most experienced performer, which was all a statesman was in the end. But his stride from there was purposeful, his hands seizing the balcony in a gesture of authority that to Londo’s eye served the dual purpose of keeping him upright. The speech was memorized, not prompted, and though Londo winced at Vir’s occasional stutters, they were astonishingly few. Even the words themselves were clearly Vir’s own. They had his disarming and at times foolish honesty, but there could be no doubt he spoke them from the heart.

But then, had not Londo’s own speech on the day of his coronation had been from the heart? It had not been difficult to summon anger over the bombings, to speak insults against the Alliance he had helped to found, only to be betrayed. This may be no different, but somehow that didn’t fit. There was no hesitation when Vir spoke of war and if anything… Londo paused the clip again, staring. If anything, _Durla_ seemed uncomfortable, eyeing the crowds with a frown that in any other man would be a pale, shaking terror. He glanced to Vir as well, far too often, far more than he had ever looked at Londo except to gloat, and he was not gloating. Could it be that Vir had found some way to cow the monster? Londo settled back into the armchair, his gaze flickering over the screen.

“The President’s ship will be arriving in six hours, perhaps you should get some rest,” Aela murmured.

“I have already rested enough,” said Londo. “One week and look what happens, the world is crashing down around our ears. How am I going to explain this to Sheridan when _I_ don’t understand what’s going on?”

“Perhaps there’s nothing to explain,” said Aela. “We have to free our world from those who control it. Surely the president will understand that, after all he freed his world from its own dictator.”

“Vir is not the dictator here,” Londo replied, but for some reason could not bring himself to say the name of the Drakh. Superstition, perhaps. That Sheridan must be the first to know, or else the vague and nameless fear at the back of his mind would come true.

Aela looked down to the now empty mug of jala clasped between her hands. “I hope you are right.” She stood. “I will wake you in the morning, you should at least try to sleep before then.” Londo nodded absently and returned the video, playing and replaying long into the night.

* * *

Ten minutes early. Normally this would be unacceptable for him, but a week in a coma might do such things to a man. There was also the small matter of a brain parasite recently removed and the lives of billions hanging in the balance, but in his experience it did not do to dwell on such things. It would only remind him of their desperate situation, and there was no perfume strong enough to cover the stench of desperation.

The purple coat may send the wrong message, and this had occurred to him as he prepared that morning. He was legally the Emperor, after all, and white was the traditional color for all official capacities. But there was little that could be done about that on such short notice, and in a way it was fitting to remind an old friend of better times. Walking the halls of the station with the flash of purple out the corner of his eye, even without the jewelry of his house to adorn it, he could almost believe himself that those better days were still here.

A wave of…something, nausea, fear, but what was no doubt nothing more than an old man’s exhaustion swept through him. He pressed a pale hand (free of rings for many years now) against the door to brace himself and inhaled sharply. He did not want to enter, and yet the very idea was foolish. Vir must have begun to rub off on him, that he would feel any trace of nerves when victory was so close. Somehow, impossibly, they had outsmarted their enemy. Sheridan had resources, and more importantly had even managed to pick up some political acumen and discretion over the years, no doubt from Delenn. The Centauri could not have a better ally. With the Alliance at their back, his planet could be free before the year was out.

( _Then why had they let him go?_ )

Londo straightened, fixed the cuff of his sleeves, and squared in his shoulder. He forced a smiled, reminded himself how close they were ( _his gut churned_ ), that there was no cause for anything but joy. His people would soon be free. He was free. He was… five minutes early. He pressed the bell at the door and it opened with a hiss.

“Ah, Sheridan!”

* * *

Londo woke on the couch, a cold sweat chilled against his skin, his hearts racing. He was still in his quarters, still dressed as he had been the night before. A dream. It had all been a dream.

“The time, Great Maker, what is the time?” He fumbled at his cuffs, at the inside pockets of his coat. He must have fallen asleep. The lights were on; perhaps he had only dozed off for a moment. He heard the clink of glass behind him and he turned to see Aela standing before the small kitchenette, still wearing the somber gray robes of the previous day. His hearts began to slow. Even if he had slept through their appointment, he had dealt with an irate Sheridan before, and after a week in the station’s hospital this all might be easily be explained. An embarrassment, but hardly the first meeting he had missed.

“0800 station time, your Majesty,” Aela said, turning and leaning back against the counter. She looked unperturbed and Londo breathed a sigh of relief. Still an hour before the meeting. She had promised to wake him after all.

_“We have one hour, Londo, and after that we have to go in front of the Alliance members and explain why I’m not going to let them bomb the bejesus out of your planet.”_

Londo blinked. Scraps of his dream were teasing his brain, but he could hear it clear as day, could see the two day growth of stubble on Sheridan’s chin, his tired and bloodshot eyes. There was a grimness to him had not been there when they last met. Perhaps the effects of leaving a small child at home, and he had opened his mouth to say so…

“Why do you ask?” Aela said.

“The meeting…” Londo said vaguely, rubbing his hands over his face to wipe away the last vestiges of sleep.

Aela perked up. “So the President has finally decided to act?”

Londo stilled.

_“The weather is quite fine on Centauri Prime this time of year. The fruit trees begin to flower, the land becomes green again. It is quite a sight, you must bring your family to see it sometime.”_

_“I’m sure it is, Londo, but as I said we don’t have a lot of time here. What was it that was so urgent? Why is Vir the new Centauri Emperor and why the_ hell _are you here on the station?”_

“No…no, Sheridan has not decided anything. Our meeting is in an hour, yes?” he said. Aelea’s brow drew together.

“Another one?” she said. “I wouldn’t really know, you never mentioned it to me.”

_Londo is speaking and yet watches distantly as Sheridan’s mouth drops open in confusion, then closes, his jaw tightening. Londo continues on as Sheridan’s face darkens. There is bewilderment in his eyes but it gives way to attentiveness, then anger. He stands, grabbing Londo by the arm._

“We have not yet had the first one,” Londo said. Aela’s eyes widened.

“Londo… that meeting was yesterday. You left twenty minutes early to get there on time I- I made sure of it. You came back after a couple hours and said it went very well.”

_“Londo, I’ve given you two hours, the whole council is waiting. This has been a waste of my time, of everyone’s time. If you have anything to_ contribute _... never mind. I have a war to plan, you can see yourself out.”_

“Oh gods,” Londo whispered.

He had entered Sheridan’s office and a haze had descended, as if he were walking through fog and he was talking, talking without pause about _nonsense._ Sheridan’s child first, then the station, then the _gods damned weather_ on Centauri Prime. Hours of talking, almost without pause and not a word, not a single damned word about the Drakh, or the Keeper, or Vir, or…

“Londo?” Aela knelt in front of him, laying her hand over his. “You’ve gone white as a sheet, what’s wrong?”

He saw it again, the clawed tips of Shiv’Kala’s fingers as the closed around his face and finally now he remembered, the burn that penetrated his skin at each of those points, burrowing its way into his skull. He knew, had known since they arrived on the station, since Vir had first made his bargain.

The Drakh would never have let him go if he could talk.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I put unbelievable hours of work and thought into this fic, so any and all comments make that time well spent!
> 
> To follow the progress of this fic in between chapters, or just geek out about Babylon 5, check out http://www.avelera.tumblr.com/tagged/road-from-hell


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